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POEMS, 



BY 



MES. JULIA H. SCOTT 



TOGETHER WITH A 



BRIEF MEMOIR, 



BY 



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MISS S. C. EDGARTON. i -L<^HX) 



•• There is a chain which few perceive, 
Though it pervades the elements 
Of eanh and sky — and it doth weave 
A spiritual bond, all deeply blent 
With high electric sympathy, 
Linking each lovely thing to Heaven. 
*Tis the strong eoul of Poetry, 
The breath which Deity hath given, 
To draw us nearer to the one 
Eternal Fount of Holiness, 
As dew-drops gather to the 3un. 
And oh, the Giver — words express 
But faint, how we adore and bless ! " 

Mrs. Scott. 



4 



V 



B STON: 

A. TOMPKINS & B. B. MUSSEY. 

1843. 



IV PREFACE. 

writer, that she is most known and best beloved. Yet, 
should the success of this little book warrant it, it may, at 
a later day, be followed by a second volume, comprising 
her Tales and Sketches. 

The Memoir, which precedes the poems, has been fur- 
nished from scant materials, and lays little claim to being 
a worthy tribute. to the character and memory of its sub- 
ject. Her friends will most clearly discern its deficiencies ; 
but let them remember, that it is only on the tablets of the 
heart, that the life and character of one we love can be 
faithfully portrayed. 

S. C.E. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
MEMOIR, 9 

POEMS. 

To Harriet, .39 

My Child, 41 

" God is Love," 43 

The Last Look, 44 

The Forest Grave, 45 

Invocation to Poetry, . . ... . . .47 

Counsels to the Young, 43 

The Graves of Crandal and Marsh, 49 

Murray at the Grave of Potter, 51 

My Wildwood Bower, 53 

We Loved, 54 

Conscience, 55 

Evening Hymn, 56 

David's Lamentation, 57 

Stanzas, 59 

The Portionless, 60 

A Morning Walk inS*********. . . . 61 

The New Commandment, 64 

Infant Years, 65 

Weep not for Her, 67 

Stars, • ..68 

1* 



6 

The Burial of George Pejee, 70 

A Closing Scene, 72 

The Wanderer's Saturday Night, 73 

The Aged Convert, 75 

The Fifth Day of February, 1834, 77 

To a long-absent Friend, 78 

Devotional Moments, . 81 

The Emigrant's Farewell, ...... 82 

June to the Invalid, .83 

The Parents' Farewell to their Child, .... 84 

Christ's Parting with his Disciples, .... 86 

The Isle of the Susquehanna, 90 

The Young Martyr, 93 

To a Friend in the Far West, 94 

A Remembrance, . . . ; . . . .96 

The Prairie Cottage, ......'. 98 

A Farewell to Winter, 100 

Death at Sea, 101 

Music across the Water, 102 

To C. M. S., 103 

The Indian's Lament, . . . . . . .107 

A Domestic Scene, 109 

Summer, Ill 

Blest are the Dead, 112 

Lines, suggested by hearing a Lady bewail the absence of 

her Husband, 113 

Infidelity, 114 

Stanzas on beholding the Picture of Mrs. Hemans, . 115 

A Legend of the Susquehanna, 117 

On the Death of a Namesake, 120 

Song — The Friend we love, 121 

Come to the Fount of Love, 122 

To an Infant smiling in Sleep, . . . . .123 

The Spirit Visiter, 124 

The First Snow, 126 

Visit to the Grave of a Friend, 127 



Hymn of the Western Missionaries, ..... 129 

The Bitter Cup, 130 

Christianity, is what? 132 

Lines to a sick Friend, 133 

Spring, 135 

Sin, . . ' 136 

The Man who trusts our Father's Love, . . . .137 

The good Christian, ........ 138 

The Power of Affection, 139 

On the Death of an aged Relative, . ... 142 

Revelations to the Dying, 144 

Stanzas written on recovery from severe illness, . . 147 

Resignation, 149 

The Mourner's Prayer, 150 

A Monody, 150 

To a little Girl gathering Flowers, .... 153 

Thoughts at the Grave of a Young Friend, .... 154 

To a Widowed Friend, 156 

Alone with the Dead, 158 

Death and the Child, 159 

Hymn, sung at the Panorama of Jerusalem, . . .160 

The last Conference, 161 

Stanzas, 163 

The Hour of Success, 165 

The Miracle at Nain, . . . . ,. . . .166 

Those we Love, 173 

Christ blessing little Children, 174 

The Power of Prayer, 174 

The Neglected Bard, 178 

The Bride's Return, 181 

Forest Ramblers, „ 184 

Tale of the Mountain Stream, 185 

The Tolling Bell, 188 

Tale of an Invalid, 189 

A Vision, 193 

The Youthful Poet, 195 



8 

Hospitality rewarded, or the Widow's Trust, . . . 196 

Jairus' Daughter, 199 

Mountain Melodies, 202 

Sleep, 203 

Spring, 204 

Moments of Sadness, 206 

Passages from the Diary of a Recluse, .... 207 

My Mountain Home, 211 

Sick-bed Fancies, , . 212 

Lines to Death, 215 



M E M I E. 



A life commenced in one of the quietest of mountain valleys, 
and, with one or two brief episodes only, matured and finished 
not a dozen miles from its commencement — a woman's life, too, 
which, like the forest wild-flower, were unnoted save for its 
emissions of sweetness in its hours of opening, bloom and 
decay — what has it to command attention from the bustling, 
noisy and ambitious world ? 

It is not for the world, therefore, that these brief pages are 
written. To the lovers, only, of modest worth, and talent con- 
secrated to holy aims ; to the admirers of sweet, devotional 
melody ; and to the personal friends of the woman and poet of 
whom we write, we would affectionately present them. 

Julia H. Kinney was born November 4th, 1800, in the beau- 
tiful valley of Sheshequin, Bradford co., Pa. She was the 
eldest of nine children ; and the usual hard lot of the " eldest 
daughter," in the families of the poor, fell with peculiar rigor 
upon her. 

When she was three or four years of age, her father was 
afflicted with total blindness, which continued for more than 
two years. During this period, it was the daughter's task to 
conduct him about the house and door-yard, " never failing," 
he remarks, " to lead him a little out of the way, to pluck a new- 
blown flower, or to satisfy her inquiring mind at every appear- 
ance of novelty ; amusing him, in these dark and lonely hours, 
by her innocent prattle, that created, if possible, more than 
parental affection." 

Wordsworth's description of the Lady that Nature made, 
would apply singularly well to the character of the youthful 
Julia. Her heart grew into the likeness of every bright and 
beautiful thing that met her gaze. Her rambles through the 
meadows and mountain paths, were not the thoughtless sports 



10 MEMOIR. 

of childhood ; they were devotions paid in the Great Temple of 
the universe. Religious emotions were quickened in her by 
every breath she inhaled. The mound that rose up with its 
flower-urns rilled with dew, was an altar whereon her young 
heart poured readily forth its sacrifice of praise. The hymn 
that the wild birds sang — the low, musical chant of the foamy 
mountain-stream — the dreamy melody of the upland breeze — 
these were enough, ever, to call forth the rich psalms of her 
oWn music-laclen soul, and to thrill all her being with fervent 
and reverential love. 

Her attachment to pets — a passion that never declined — was 
early and remarkably displayed. If there was a frozen brood 
of chickens, or a sick lamb, an old sheep, or a calf, suffering or 
in need, she never failed to feed, nurse and resuscitate it ; and it 
was no uncommon thing for her to walk miles, and to get up at 
dead of night, in a thunder-storm, to go in search of young 
lambs, and bring them to shelter. Oftentimes, in spring, she 
quite appropriated the fire-side to these invalid animals ; for 
which little attentions, she acquired, in the family, the title of 
Doctor Jule. 

Another passion that she early manifested — for all her feel- 
ings and propensities had the ardor of passion — was for read- 
ing and books. And yet we are told that, for many years, the 
only book she possessed, beside the Bible, was an old, worn-out 
copy of Burns. This she read and studied until it was tho- 
roughly at the command of memory ; and many of her earliest 
compositions were imitations of the songs she most admired in 
this vade mecum of her girlhood. 

To obtain a holiday, now and then, and run away with book 
or newspaper in hand to the w 7 oods, and sit hour after hour, 
poring over its priceless treasures, was not enough to satisfy 
the cravings of young thought ; there was, if possible, an 
intenser pleasure in lying upon her pillow at night, with the 
candlestick resting upon her breast, and the favorite volume 
open to her eager and brilliant gaze. But, unfortunately for the 
indulgence of this pleasure, the candlestick was found one 
morning sitting upon her breast, (the candle having burned 
quite into the socket and expired,) and the young night-student 
fast asleep! Te dangerous practice was forbidden, and the 
candlesticks concealed ; but " necessity is the mother of inven- 



MEMOIR. 11 

tion," and it was not long before the salt mortar "was found to 
be an excellent substitute for the article prohibited. 

Among the earliest outbreaks of that poetic fire which event- 
ually consumed the shrine in which it burned, were the lul- 
laby-songs she used in rocking an infant brother or sister to 
sleep. Mother Goose's Melodies were discarded, and improvi- 
sations were poured forth from her own overflowing imagina- 
tion, simple, and even rude, doubtless, in expression, yet so 
beautiful and strange as to elicit the attention and remark of 
her parents, both of whom were fully capable of understanding 
" the vision and the faculty divine." These impromptu fancies 
were undoubtedly uttered in melodies that were equally original 
and unstudied ; for it was but a few years later than this that 
she acquired the art of composing music, of which " some wild 
and melancholy airs are still preserved by the family.'' 

Among the anecdotes related of her early rhyming propen- 
sity, we find the following, which we give in the narrator's own 
words. " When Julia was about twelve years old, some neigh- 
bors were passing the evening at her father's. A discussion 
arose between an Arminian and a Calvinist, in which their 
favorite tenets were strongly urged. Julia was about the house 
with the rest of the children. No one supposed she was pay- 
ing any particular attention to what was passing. The next 
evening, as her father was looking over her writing-book, to see 
what progress she had made, he found the following : 

Last night as I slept, unconscious of harm, 

And dreamed of the blest and the free, 
A spectre arose that created alarm, 

And, thoughtfully, thus said to me : 
'•' Look to thyself, and take care of thyself, 

For nobody cares for thee !" 
The spectre withdrew ; and, passing away, 

A stern, rigid voice cried, " Stop ! and see 
To thyself, or see not to thyself, 

The self-same thing will be I" 

There is embodied in these crude rhymes a germ of that 
satire, which, in the power to which it eventually matured, 
excelled anything of the kind we have ever met in woman. 
Yet, keen as it grew to be, it was never destructive. It could 



12 MEMOIR. 

cleave helm, and shield, and buckler, but it never wounded the 
feeblest nerve of the heart. 

The foregoing fragmentary memorials of her childhood fur- 
nish the data of nearly all we shall portray of her developed 
character. She was a creature of ardent feelings, wayward* 
but generous impulses, fervid and glowing imagination, and 
intellect keenly appreciative of all that was beautiful in nature, 
literature, and the arts. Under happier auspices, in the light 
of a brighter day, she would have lifted herself up like a passion 
flower to the reverence and admiration of the world ; but in the 
poverty and seclusion of her mountain home, her destiny was 
like that of a meadow rose, given to sweeten the atmosphere 
of the small circle in which she dwelt, to scatter a few clouds 
of perfume that the winds might waft to the world abroad, and 
then, blighted by the first rude breath of sorrow, to droop her 
head, and sink to rest upon the banks of her native stream, 
mourned silently and deeply by the few, but soon vanished, like 
a rainbow mist, from the blaze and tumult of the crowd. 

The few years that intervened between childhood and mar- 
ried life, were employed chiefly at school, either as a scholar 
or teacher, though in neither capacity was she enabled to arrive 
at any signal distinction, — the common district school being the 
principal theatre in which she engaged. It was during her 
service in the latter capacity that she became acquainted with. 
Dr. D. L. Scott — a resident of the village where she was em- 
ployed; and with whom, in the spring of the following year, 
May 2d, 1835, she was happily united in marriage. 

Previous to this event, her contributions to the public jour- 
nals, particularly to those of her own religious sect, had gained 
for her a very considerable popularity as a poetess ; and by her 
own denomination she was justly regarded with an ardent and 
affectionate interest, such as no former writer among them had 
elicited. Her earliest contributions appeared in the Philadel- 
phia Casket, over the signature of Juliet ; and though they do 
not exhibit the force and vigorous beauty of her later composi- 
tions, they are replete with true poetic tenderness, and sweet, 
life-like description. Some of these are to be found in the 
adjoining collection. 

On the occasion of her marriage, Mrs. Scott removed to the 
beautiful village of Towanda, distant about ten or a dozen miles 



MEMOIR. 13 

from her birthplace, and lying upon the banks of the same 
beautiful river. It was some change to pass from the almost 
Arcadian quiet of Sheshequin to the bustling activity of a shire- 
town ; and a still greater one to lay aside the errant life of 
maidenhood for the cares and confinement of a matron. How- 
ever, there was something in the excitement of a village society, 
in party-giving and party-going, that for awhile interested and 
amused her; and, even after ill-health made the claims of 
society burdensome, she could scarcely be persuaded to relin- 
quish the visits of her numerous friends, whose intercourse had 
become to her almost a daily necessity. 

There were moments, however, when she felt that she was 
spending her time frivolously, and longed for the quiet of a 
farm life, (a favorite project with herself and husband,) where 
she could devote herself to the pursuit of literature, and leave 
an intellectual legacy to her friends, worthy of her gifts. " I can 
do nothing," she would say, " in this visiting life. I long for a 
home far away in the green fields, where there would be nothing 
to interrupt my thoughts. The excitement of company com- 
pletely unfits my mind for any protracted effort, and I can 
never attempt the execution of an elaborate poem till I am free 
to fetter my soul down to steadfast meditation. A nice little 
farm, on the banks of the Susquehanna, would be just the spot 
to dream, and study, and create — and some day it will be ours 
— so hope promises." 

But hope promised what death did not allow to become real- 
ized ; and the only home the banks of the Susquehanna now 
afford to one who loved them so well, is the silent home that 
permits no thought, with the long repose that brings no dreams. 

Two years of wedded life passed quietly away, and left her 
in the possession of all those blessings dearest to the heart of 
woman. A pleasant and comfortable home, surrounded with 
beautiful flowers and shrubs that her own hand had planted ; 
books, not abundant but choice ; a husband, whose intelligence 
and affection made the fireside the dearest spot on earth ; and 
last, but O how inestimably precious ! a little babe, whose sun- 
shiny tresses, and eyes like mountain violets, were mirrored 
brightly, day and night, in the deep tides of her overloving 
heart, — these made up the charms, the sunbeams, the music, 
the sweet poetry of her existence. These almost caused her to 
2 



14 MEMOIR. 

forget that her frame was weak, and her step languid and fal- 
tering, and tending slowly but surely to the grave. A few 
months later, and the sunshine was all gone — the music hushed ; 
for Marian, the beautiful babe, was dead. She grew suddenly 
sick, while her father was at some distance from home, 
and before he could be apprized of her illness, her little spirit 
struggled away from its mortal agony, and the pallid dust, only, 
was left to welcome his return. We shall be excused, perhaps, 
for inserting here an extract from a letter, written shortly after 
by the afflicted mother. It describes, as our words would fail 
to do, the mingled anguish and resignation that struggled 
together in her heart. 

" I trust, dear sister," she writes, " that I am, at present, 
through the all-pervading influence of a Saviour's love, in a 
great measure reconciled to the loss of the dear idol, although 
the shock was at first so great as to prostrate me to the brink of 
the grave ; and I have ever since,, until within a few days, been 
unable to inhale the fresh, out-of-door air, or gaze upon the 
decorations of nature's temple, once so very dear to me. And 
will you wonder ? The disease of the little sufferer was that 
most dreadful one called cholera infantum ; and my husband 
was absent all the time, and could not get home until a very 
few hours before her burial. Her disease was not understood 
by the attending physician, (though I more than suspected its 
nature,) consequently, the medicine administered only tended 
to aggravate the violence of the most distressing symptoms 
imaginable, until nature, wearied with the scene of torture, 
calmly resigned the innocent lamb to her perpetual sleep. O ! 
Sarah ! it is such reflections as these that embitter the cup my 
Father has given me to drink. To feel that all we did to 
alleviate, only sharpened the pangs of distress ; to believe (as I 
most solemnly do) that had her father been here, the little arms 
might still be clasping my neck, the rosy lips still be pressed 
in clinging fondness to mine, and the soft, blue eyes throwing 
down a world of light and gladness to my heart. O, can I live? 
can I live ? Yes, I can. Even now my health is improving, 
my spirits are rallying. Although the dying picture still hangs 
between me and the blessed sunlight ; although through all my 
feverish sleep I am clasping the cold, corrupted (but O how 
dear !) clay to my throbbing bosom, trying to reanimate it with 



MEMOIR. 15 

the consuming fire within, while the sweet eyes but open to 
smile upon me, and again fade and die ; I can still live — for I 
know that my Redeemer livelh, and by this I also know that 
Marian liveth. God be praised for the invaluable knowledge ! 
All else were now vain, and but for this, the grave would long 
since have closed over me. God be praised ! Hallelujah !" 

It was in the month following that Mrs. Scott visited 
Boston, and attended the General Convention of Universalists 
then hoiden in that city. Perhaps no event could have tended 
more to soften and alleviate the distress of mind occasioned by 
her bereavement, than this period of friendly communion and 
religious worship. It long dwelt in her memory; and her 
heart compared it to a warm, bright burst of sunshine after a 
black and furious storm. She thus alludes to it in a subse- 
quent letter : 

" How like a dream does that sweet meeting now seem to 
me — dim and shadowy, and yet thrilling! Not one counte- 
nance there that for an instant caught my eye but is indelibly 
pictured in memory. I shall remember them all a hundred 
years hence in heaven. But the streets, the scenery, all else 
have become almost as though they were not. I shall ever 
rejoice that I was there. I have been happier since, and the 
tie of brotherly and sisterly affection has been widened and 
strengthened ; and I feel that even the slight personal acquaint- 
ance enjoyed with you, quite rewarded my " perils by sea and 
by land." 

As we have frequently been requested to describe Mrs. 
Scott's personal appearance to those who did not enjoy the 
pleasure of her acquaintance, we may be excused for a brief 
sketch of our "first impressions." 

We had heard her appearance described as "majestic;" and 
in younger and healthier days this term would have been sin- 
gularly appropriate ; but at the time of our first meeting with 
her, sickness and sorrow had made melancholy ravages, both 
upon her face and form ; her figure, which was strikingly tall, 
was bowed and emaciated, her cheeks hollow, and her eyes 
languid and full of touching sorrow. But there was something 
in the very droop of her figure which seemed to us eminently 
graceful, and her countenance, with its fitful color, that came 
and went with every transition of thought and feeling, and its 



16 MEMOIR. 

glorious black eyes, that were one moment radiant with spiritual 
joy, and the next drooping with the intensest melancholy, was 
one of the most striking and intellectual our eyes had ever 
rested upon.* 

On her return from Boston, she stopped a few weeks with 
her relatives in Norwich, Conn., and a few weeks in New 
York, where her husband, whose business had not allowed him 
to accompany her, came to convey her home. " Our journey," 
she writes, " was quite, tedious, owing to bad roads and unset- 
tled weather ; but we were travelling home, and therefore con- 
trived to make November seem ' as pleasant as May,' — there is 
such magic in that word home, even though deprived of its best 
loved inmate." 

" Since our return," she subjoins, " we have been the busi- 
est people in existence, tearing down old walls, and replacing 
them with new ones — I with company all the while, and no 
help, although poor husband spent half his time in scouring the 
country in search of such commodity. In addition to these 
vexations, I have been racked with a three-weeks' tooth-ache, 
caused by newly-plastered walls, and have had to rack my 
brains daily for a month in search of apologies for the non- 
attendance of parties and the like, — things which I do hereafter 
and forever entirely eschew, — and have beside been constantly 
pestered for descriptions of my journey by such as could not 
possibly appreciate its interest, if it possessed any." 

In the spring following, a little son was given to her, to sup- 
ply the void in her heart occasioned by the loss of Marian. It 
was sometime in the succeeding summer that we received from 
her the melancholy details of subsequent affliction. 

My dear S : 



I snatch a hasty moment, to let you know I am still among 
the living, although, since I wrote you last, I have been much 
of the time upon the threshold of death. I was attacked, in 
April, with a fever, from which I am now but slowly recover- 
ing. Your late very dear letter (May 9) found me in an almost 

*The portrait contained in this volume is very generally approved 
by her friends. The cheeks are much rounder than hers were at the 
period of our acquaintance — but she was then in very ill health. The 
eyes and forehead are perfectly like. 



MEMOIR. 17 

unconscious state — but husband read it to me, and I at length 
comprehended its contents. * * * I will not 

distress your feeling heart with a detail of my sufferings 
during the severe part of my illness. The recollection of 
those horrid suffocating hours is terrible, and I seldom, on my 
own account, dwell upon them. It is enough that I am better 
now. The spectre, consumption, is still stalking at no great 
distance from me, but my friends think I may for some time 
escape his importunities by a change of air; and we shall 
therefore probably remove south or west, as soon as my 
strength will permit. So much for myself. And would I could 
stop here, — but O my baby ! Would, dear sister, that you were 
here with me, that I might put my arm around your neck, and 
sob out the grief that oppresses me, upon your bosom. The 
dear little one is still with us, but the eye of the destroying 
angel is upon him, and I fear few days will pass ere we 
shall lay him by the side of Marian. During my sickness, 
from one of the healthiest children in the world, he has 
changed to a mere skeleton. Oh Sarah, is not the hand of the 
Lord laid heavily upon me ? All the day long the little dear 
lies moaning in his cradle, wringing his skeleton fingers, and 
singing, during intervals of ease, a monotonous, melancholy 
tune, which sounds to me like his death-requiem ; and through 
the long, feverish nights, we carry him from bed to cradle, and 
from cradle to his wagon, but still he writhes and suffers, while I 
can only weep and exclaim, " Lord, be merciful to me a sinner !" 
Sarah ! Sarah ! I sometimes think my afflictions are greater 
than I can bear, and that my poor brain must give way, after 
a while. Job's were great, but people came and told him that 
his children were dead — he did not witness the torturing pangs 
of dissolution ; there lies the sting of death to a mother. But 
God may, after all, be merciful to me, and spare this one lovely 
blossom — and to this end, beloved sister, do thou pray for thy 
broken-hearted friend. 

The Lord teas merciful to her, and the child of her love was 
spared to brighten her own death-bed — the subject of her fond- 
est wishes and her latest prayers. We cannot refrain from 
annexing here an extract from a letter written the next winter. 
It reveals much of the warmth and sweetness of her nature 
2 # 



18 MEMOIR. 

in those periods when she was free from the depression of 
spirits incident to ill health ; and we give it as illustrative of 
character. 

To wand a, Feb. 8th, 1840. 
My dear * * * 

I cannot a moment defer answering your most joyfully 
received letter. I had become so utterly hopeless of ever 
hearing from you again, that the certainty of your good health 
and abiding affection for me, was, I assure you, no slight relief 
to my anxious forebodings. It is strange it never occurred to 
me that you might be in the dark as to my whereabouts. But 
we, so soon after I wrote you, gave up the idea of the west or 
south, I had forgotten having given you such an intimation. 

Thank God ! my sweet friend, none of your questions have 
caused me an instant's uneasiness. I feel, except in warm 
days, quite well indeed ; and the little bird of my bosom is 
doing very well. His soft cheeks are getting quite rosy and 
fat ; and his laughing black eyes are " bright as the shield 
of my fathers." I cannot express the happiness I enjoy with 
him. O how I wish you were here to help me romp with him. 
Shall we never meet and mingle ? Shall our personal ac- 
quaintance never be extended in this world ? I feel as if it 
will. Do, beloved friend, determine to visit me. Did I not 
take that same long journey almost entirely to see }^ou ? I must 
be allowed to anticipate, however short of the reality I may 
come. Next September is the General Convention, and either 
to or from it, you must visit me. O, there are many sweet 
spots here, to visit; many delightful prospects to survey; 
many dear ones whose society you would relish ; many, many — 

how I wish you were within arm's reach ! You will not 
wait till fall — you will come this spring ? My heart bounds so 
rapturously at the thought of dear, dear spring ! O if, with all 
her flowers, she might bring you, the dearest. * * * 

How much I think of Mrs. T.'s death — she was so lovely, so 
intelligent. I have her beautiful face fully impressed upon the 
tablets of memory. How does her husband bear it ? O that 

1 could give him a word of real consolation ; but all has been 
said that can be, and the Saviour alone can give him comfort. 

Have you not been completely horrified at the burning of 



MEMOIR. 19 

the Lexington? I know not when anything has taken such 
deep hold of my sympathies. She was the same boat I went 
to Boston in — a most beautiful steamer. I can imagine the 
whole scene. Captain Hilliard I knew in Norwich, and many 
of the rest I had often heard of. May God support the be- 
reaved. Many hearts are this moment bleeding over crushed 
hopes and agonizing reflections. 

* * * I have reserved the last page for a couple of little 
child's tales. They are simplicity simplified, that I concocted 
for my little George (Heaven bless him !) to learn when he gets 
old enough. If you think them of any consequence, I might 
furnish for every number. I give but a few moments to their 
composition — speak plainly. It is a good way to send alto- 
gether invaluable articles, and these perhaps are so. I meant 
to have sent you something before, of more consequence, but 
will try to make up hereafter, if you will at this late hour 
accept. In much haste and love, J. H. S. 

P. S. I have substituted " Juliet " for my initials, dear. 
Alter, if you think proper. I give you the privilege, for all that 
I said in my former letter. Husband has almost laughed me 
out of the notion of altering my initials. I am almost afraid 
my nature is rather fickle, I am so easily persuaded. Still, I 
think " Juliet " just as well, and, if you like, will retain it. 
I repeat, if these little rhyming stories please you, I will try and 
furnish as often as you wish. Use perfect frankness about it, 
having no fear of offence. I will try and send you something 
far better, soon. I fear you will never make out this wretched 
writing. Again I beg, write soon, and tell me^gteything — you 
please. Yours, £omty&r T - 

Julia. 

About this time the second volume of the " Rose of Sharon " 
was in preparation, and, with her usual generosity, Mrs. Scott 
sent us several beautiful poems, accompanied by the following 
letter, which, as it alluded briefly to her own productions, will 
be of interest to many. 

I will hasten, dear S., to inform you that I do not expect 
you to put all that long string of verse into the Rose. I send 
you so much, only to give you a chance to select ; and you will 
laugh when I tell you I have still another piece, called the 



20 MEMOIR. 

" Prairie Cottage," that I could not get in. Verily, you are in 
danger of being killed with kindness. You will find many 
defects in the foregoing, and I pray you take all liberty in alter- 
ing where you can for the better. I shall feel very thankful. 
I have made no attempt at punctuation, or even legibility, being 
obliged to write much of it with Georgy in my arms. I do not 
feel at all satisfied with my productions. They sound to me 
(worst of all sounds) common-place. I suppose the " Mountain 
Stream" best, but that is defective. * * * * 

the dear little bridal roses ! they are all dead — wo 's me I 
I did my best with them, but I think the life was gone ere they 
reached me, the weather was so cold. I regretted it the more, 
as the kind is unknown here, while I find the moss rose is in 
the gardens of one or two of my friends. But I thank you very 
much for your kind endeavors. I shall take every pains with 
the clematis. 

1 like your little Flora-fancy much, and send you a few 
flowers of the polyanthus. I know not their language, but 
from me let them speak the language of love. I send you a few 
seeds of the cypress vine, a southern thing, for your arbor. I 
believe they are the black seeds, but, for fear I may have mis- 
taken them, I will enclose some of the blazing star, that came 
in a letter to brother Wilson, from the south, with them. The 
vine is said to be very beautiful. Accept my thanks for your 
kind offer of sending me rare seeds, and believe me ever yours. 

Julia. 

In the autumn of 1840, we spent a few weeks with Mrs. 
Scott at her pleasant home in Towanda. It was the delicious 
Indian summer — everywhere beautiful, but thrice glorious when 
resting down upon the mountains and river scenery of Pennsyl- 
vania. 

We found Mrs. Scott much changed, even from the wasted 
appearance she presented two years before. Her health was 
very poor, sometimes quite confining her to the house, and at 
the best subtracting much from the enjoyment of her rides and 
rambles. Nevertheless, we were much abroad, visiting her 
favorite haunts, riding over the rough mountain roads, explor- 
ing the sweet islands upon the bosom of the river, and realizing 
in full the dreams of previous years. We visited, together, 
the home of her childhood ; and as we stood by the banks of the 



MEMOIR. 21 

Susquehanna, and looked up at the rugged Alleganies, that 
wall in that beautiful valley on either hand, or cast our eyes 
around upon the lovely islands, the swift mountain streams, 
and the emerald meadows asleep in the bosoms of the hills, she 
related, in her glowing and piquant manner, the adventures, the 
gipseyings and the romantic dreams of her girlhood. These 
sylvan communings had a charm in them, never to be forgotten. 
They were held with the divinity at her own shrine and before 
her own incense-breathing altars ; for, to modify slightly the 
words of another, 

''Her pen had linked with every glen, 
And every hill, and every stream, 
The romance of some poet-dream." 

But however fascinating to ourself the reminiscences of this 
visit, they can be of little interest to the general reader. We 
found all that was lovely in the poet, beautifully illustrated in 
the daily life of the woman. Genius was with her no glitter- 
ing mirage, hovering over a barren and arid life ; it was like 
the rainbow mist uplifting itself from the bosom of a pure and 
fertilizing stream, and soaring up to heaven, in incense-wreaths 
too sweet to be wasted on an earthly shrine. 

We ramhled with her through the mountain-passes, and 
bathed our brow in the silvery waters of her native valley ; we 
stood with her by the bed of the dying, where, on her own 
sweet voice, the departing spirit was wafted up in triumph and 
rejoicing to the throne of the Father; we sat at her side 
through the simple family devotions that were wont to ascend 
from her own fireside ; and in all these varied scenes and acts, 
it is sufficient to say of her that the Poet and the Woman were 
scarcely different phases of the same pure, gentle, yet lofty 
and fervent Soul ; that the Priestess wore into the Holy of 
Holies the same Urim and Thummim that dazzled the eyes 
of those who saw her only in the outer court of the Temple ; 
and that, as of the Master she loved, so might it be said of this 
faithful servitor, that 

" In every act, in every thought, 
She lived the precepts that she taught." 

On our return to Massachusetts, we besought Mrs. Scott's 
company as far as Utica, N. Y., the residence of a mutual 



22 MEMOIR. 

friend, in whose family we purposed visiting. Although very 
unwell, she was prevailed upon, by our entreaties, to undertake 
the journey. The route was delightful through the villages of 
Athens, Oswego, Ithaca, across the Cayuga lake by steamboat, 
and by railroad from Auburn to Utica. We arrived safely ; but 
the second day of our visit Mrs. Scott was taken ill, and for 
nearly a week confined to her chamber. As soon as her 
strength Avould allow, we returned together to Pennsylvania ; 
and, though fitter by far for her couch than for the confusion 
and fatigue of public travelling, her perception and enjoyment 
of the ludicrous was never more active than through the vari- 
ous adventures of this comfortless journey. 

The short remnant of her history can be most satisfactorily 
gleaned from her own and her husband's letters, extracts from 
which follow in regular succession. 

To wand A, Dec. 2d, 1840. 
* * * It seems we misunderstood each other relative to 
the order of writing. I expected to hear from you immedi- 
ately on your arrival in Clinton, and to answer your letter so 
that you should receive it in Utica. You can scarcely imagine 
how much trouble I had about you before I heard from you, I 
was so impressed with the certainty of your writing soon as 
you reached Clinton. I felt quite certain you were sick, and 
of course through my means. The Doctor ran and ran to the 
post-office, day after day, and I fretted myself into fidgets ; and 
had I not fortunately been taken quite sick again, so as to be 
frightened about myself, I know not what would have become 
of me. After you left me, I had no sort of help for four days, 
except David and Georgy, and was scarcely able to walk across 
the room. After that we got a girl from Sheshequin, and soon 
after her arrival I took to my bed for two weeks, and began to 
think I should never get out ; but I grew so furious at being 
starved and frozen to death, (my girl used to look in upon me 
but once a day,) that I " ran violently" down stairs one day, and 
have kept here ever since. I am really pretty well, now, for 
me, but am quite worn out with nursing George, who has been 
sick a week. We think he is out of danger now, as he has begun 
tearing the house down again. I am nearly through the sick 
list — have patience. The Doctor is complaining of the worst 



MEMOIR. 23 

cold he ever had, but thinks he will muster energy enough to 
scribble a word in this sheet. * * * What a dreary jaunt 
you must have had of it to Madison ! Ludicrous as was your 
account of it, I could not laugh, for I could not forget that I was 
the cause. W. was very sorry, he said, when he found how 
election went, that he had not continued on to Utica. * * * 
A great stag has been roasted on the green in celebration of the 
Tip. victory. I think I must send you W.'s account of it, 
under the head of Harrisonalia, in the last Banner. I seldom 
read such things, but I really think that is rather keen — it is 
certainly true. * * * 

Do you have pleasant weather yet 1 This is a most lovely 
day, here. I ought to go arid examine Mr. Kittle's portraits. 
I talk of sitting ; so, when you get ready to bring out my poems, 
you can send your engravers on for a resemblance of the re- 
markable woman* 

Did you find everything right at home? I shall be very 
anxious to hear, and am sure you cannot have the heart to pro- 
crastinate. I think this letter will remind you of Malibran's 
memoirs — you will have to read over a great many " final 
scenes." Did C. accompany you ? or did the gizzard peelings 
cure him, so that he resumed his pastoral charge ? I cannot 
help laughing, when I think what a lugubrious look he gave 
the disgusting medicine. * * * 

What a sweet spot you have made of the Isle of the Susque- 
hanna. Ah! we are very grateful to you for it. D was 

quite in ecstasies at your allusion to him. He tried to look 
indifferent while reading it, knowing I was watching him — but 
pleasure would streak down the corners of his mouth, in spite 
of everything ; and of all the talented persons in the world, he 
thinks you are the most talent/uZ, as R. has it. My arti- 
cles he does not deign to notice. I told him that he and Mrs. 
B. agreed perfectly. * * * 

If you should see a little article in the " Union " about the 
Fairy Isle, I beg you will not take close peep at it. It sounded 
so unharmonious after reading yours, although suggested by it, 
that I had half a mind to suppress it. 

* This is but a pleasantry, in allusion to a playful threat of ours that 
if she would not collect her poems, we would take the matter into our 
own hands. — Ed. 



24 MEMOIR. 

Georgy sends you a world of love. I read him a bit of yoirr 
letter every day, and the little rogue laughs till his eyes go out 
of sight. It is where you say, " Give my love to little Georgy," 
and I always add, "Kiss little Georgy for me." He under- 
stands it perfectly. He is growing handsome fast, and I begin 
to think him quite a little Cupid, in his jockey cap. Well, I 
don't know but I shall run on forever, and it will not do, for 
your room must be put to rights for Clara. Ah ! it makes me 
quite melancholy to go to your room, I miss you so very much, 
my dear friend. God grant this letter may find you well and 
happy, though not quite forgetful of some affectionate friends, 
"far awa'." God forever bless you, dear, and bring us 
together once more on earth. Farewell. Julia. 

Towanda, Jan., 1841. 
My dear friend : 

Your letter was very gladly received, although I was not per- 
mitted to read it. The Doctor, however, made known to me the 
contents, which interested me deeply, for I knew not before 
whether you had reached home. I have the old story to tell, of 
sickness. Have been confined ever since new-year's to my 
bed, until within three or four days. Sit up a little, but am 
very weak. Took a severe cold — settled on my lungs — attended 
with fever, and the greatest nervous derangement I ever knew. 
In a word, I have been very sick, much worse than when at 
Utica; and have about done looking for even comfortable 
health in this sickly world more. Everything has a bilious 
and consumptive look to me, except religion. No shadows, 
thank God ! can ever darken the face of that angel of light. 
Her smiles are ever upon me. 

I regret to tell you that my mind is wearing out with my 
body. I think I must give up mental efforts entirely for a 
time, I feel so very languid. I enjoy reading well as ever, 
when they will let me use my eyes ; but the thought of origin- 
ating anything myself is exceedingly annoying. What, you 
will say, then, is to be done with your leaf in the " Rose ? " Ah ! 
my dear, I know not. You will, I fear, have to let me off 
entirely, or at least give me some months, unless a change 
comes over me soon. I have attempted several pencil sketches 
in bed — but my ideas seemed but a curdled and colorless mass, 



MEMOIR. 25 

and I gave over. I had written some dozen articles for various 
papers before getting down to the bed, but my nerves were 
even then so prostrated that my sketches read very stupid, and 
so I presume the editors thought. 

" My days are in the yellow leaf." That reminds me that my 
friend E. W. M., made me a new-year's present of Halleck's 
splendid Byron. I am deeply in love with the noble bard's deep, 
dark eyes — but what business has Guiccioli in it ? I think I 
shall tear her out. His " Detached Thoughts " have interested 
me deeply. I think Byron much more entitled to the world's 
admiration than Napoleon. The latter I have learned almost 
to detest, and I am satisfied the twenty-second century will 
class him with Nero. What do you think of " Byron," for the 
name of an article for the " Rose," if I am able to write any- 
thing ? I should hardly dare be enthusiastic in praise of the 
author of " Don Juan," and yet it seems as if I could almost be 
eloquent in admiration of his poetical sublimity. O ! is n't he 
great ? I feel like the veriest insect, when reading Mazeppa 
and Childe Harold. The former absolutely makes me dizzy, 
and the latter crushes me into the meanest insignificance. 

I have this eve received a pretty letter from Mrs. C, which I 
shall try and soon answer. I am very much obliged to you, for 
I am sure your kindness must have obtained for me the happi- 
ness. 

Do you think Mrs. S. will really publish her poetry? And 
you advise me to do the same. Sarah, Sarah! don't advise me 
to a foolish thing. Our book-shelves are already loaded with 
mediocre poetry ; and never, till I have written something that 
will do me more credit than anything that I have yet written, 
shall my scribblings go into a book. If I should die before 
. anything of the kind happens, I should hope there would be 
those who cared enough for me to get my scraps together, and 
send out a small edition, enough for my particular friends. I 
have very few things in my possession — no MSS., and my 
health will not warrant me in collecting, copying, revising, etc.; 
and, indeed, I don't know that I should care to do it under any 
circumstances. Were I sure Georgy would grow up, perhaps 

-. He is very well, but don't talk yet. The little rogue !. 

how I love him. I think he will make a great man ; don't you ? 
J wish I had called him Washington, or Lafayette. 
3 



26 MEMOIR. 

Mr. Kittle has given the Doctor a capital portrait. Mine is 
still in dishabille. He has thrown one aside, and is in douht 
whether the second will be anything of a likeness. The poor 
man does me the honor to say that I have a most extraordinary 
face, quite chameleon-like— and sums up the whole by declar- 
ing that 1 wear too much soul to be painted, just like Henry 
Clay. Is n't that good ? People shall not see me without a fee 
after this. 

I did not think to make this letter half as long, but I have 
run on, and all about myself, I guess. I durst not look back. 

I made myself entirely down writing to yesterday. We 

have formed a little church m Sheshequin, and several are 
opposed to it. I have had a world of trouble about it. As I 
helped the matter on, they are displeased with me ; but that I 
should not care for, if they could be brought into the measure 
at last. Oh, if some influential brother at the East could be 
persuaded to write some strong articles in favor of church 
organization and the Eucharist, and would send me the papers 
containing them, that I might show these people and convince 
them, how happy I should be. If you were with them, I 
would beg you to get Father Ballou, or H. Ballou, 2d, to do it. 
This trouble lies at my heart's core. I cannot tell you all. 
Adieu. Your own Julia. 

April 3d, 1841. 
Dearest Sarah: 

My conscience has felt uneasy ever since my last, fearing you 
would think me ungrateful, and everything else bad, in sending 
you such a cold, quiet letter, as it seems to me now I did ; but, 
believe me, dear S., I was so wretchedly sick, as I told you, I 
believe, that I scarce knew what I wrote. I am very little 
better off to-day. I was intending to finish, nearly, to-day, the 
prose article I promised you ; but the Doctor has forbidden my 
touching it. The truth is, I am strangely threatened with 
some brain difficulty. I thought last night what little sense I 
have was fast leaving me ; and as I won't have the nape of my 
neck blistered, he can only revenge himself by trying to keep 
me stupid — an unnecessary caution, one would think. But it 
does not require effort to write to you — you are so kind in let- 
ting me scrawl off things in my own heedless way. All my 
scribbling has now to be done in my lap, with George to give 



MEMOIR. 27 

the pauses. So do exert your usual lenity, for my side obliges 
me to sit upright, and my head can't be bent at all. But a truce 
to complaints. 

I am afraid the prose I have for you will be too long. I have 
taken some pains with it so far, and shall, if able, re-copy it ; 
but it may be some time first, judging by my present situation. 
5 Tis not really a story — but intended to illustrate, by a kind of 
biography, the falseness of the doctrine of hereditary obtuse- 
ness ; also the insufficiency of everything to produce happiness, 
save Christianity. The first part is somewhat humorous, by 
way of variety ; the latter intended to be elevated, according to 
the simple sublimities of the gospel. Nothing new, you see. 
I have christened it, " The Dweller Apart," and the heroine is 
Kate Scranton. I see you are horrified at the name ; but re- 
member, she is of a wretched family. Write soon and tell me 
whether you really want an article of this character and length. 
Always, dear Sarah, deal frankly with me in these things. I 
shall love you the better. I think / shall like it, after copying 
again, but cannot answer for others. 

I had a letter from A. B. G. the other day. He strongly urges 
the immediate publication of nearly all I have ever written, 
and says he will edit the work himself, if I can get no one else. 
I hardly know what to think. I am afraid you and he together 
will make me do a foolish thing. I can hardly resist you com- 
bined — separate, I think I might. If you were only near, with 
your advice and assistance, I don't know but I might under- 
take. 'Twill be a task to get my scraps together, and correct 
them. O that you lived near, I should have so much advice to 
beg about what to publish and what to suppress. I know 
there is much G. would be for publishing, that I, and perhaps 
you, v/ould suppress. If, after I get them in publishing form, 
you could look them over — but I see no possible way. Well, 
let it go now. The book would be as new to me as to any one, 
for I really know not what I have written, but fear little that 
any save friendship would care to preserve. * * * As 
usual, I have neglected saying much I wished to — Transcen- 
dentalism — " The Future," — etc. etc. Good bye — good bye. 

Julia. 



28 MEMOIR. 

The extracts which follow are from the last, or nearly the 
last letter she ever wrote. It was pencilled in characters feeble 
and tremulous, and many of the words were but half formed. 

Towasda, April 29, 1841. 
Dear 

Although forbidden to write anything, 1 cannot forbear 
scribbling a few words to tell you how very, very happy I was in 
the receipt of your kind letter. But that I knew you were busy, 
I should have wondered at your silence. Your letter, how- 
ever, was good enough to make amends for the time. This, 
of course, cannot be a reply to it, as I take advantage of 
my husband's absence to write. He watches me like a kite. 
I have not written a word since I wrote you, except a pencil 
line to P. P. I think you have guessed by this time that I am 
pretty near sick. I am, indeed, miserable enough; have 
thrown aside every kind of employment, even reading, to a 
great extent. I have had a physician from abroad to visit me 
once, in whom I have considerable confidence. He holds out 
to me a faint prospect of health after a six months' course of 
medicine, though I am informed that he has told some of my 
friends that he considers my case almost hopeless. My hus- 
band, however, is much more sanguine, and will not hear me 
say a word about dying — which is natural, you know. I wish 
to have no will but the Lord's. 

When you write to brothers G , T , T , and Mrs. 

C, give my warmest, dearest love to them. I could not bear 
the thought of being forgotten by those persons when I am 
gone — and you ! But I am too selfish, too foolish. 

* * * I have so much to say which I must not. My story ! 
I am so sorry — 't is about half finished. There is but one way. 
If you can get nothing in its place, and think it will be easier 
to finish this than to write another, I will try and sketch the 
rest of the plan, and send it on for you to fill. If you can get 
along without it, however, I think you had better, for I am 
afraid it will not answer your expectations. Indeed, I feel 
quite sure — I was so nervous when I wrote it. I will try and 

have D get M to illustrate your " Highlands " — 

he has lived at West Point. I anticipate a great treat when 
that book comes out, if I live. I have lent the last volume till 



MEMOIR. 29 

it is nearly worn out. * * * I am greatly pleased with the 
" Christian Graces," — they, also, will come out in book form, 
will they not ? * * * If you have not yet written to 
Brother G., please state to him my situation, as an excuse for 
not answering his last dear, warm-hearted letter, for which, 
please tell him, he has my deepest gratitude. * * * 

But I am exhausted. You will not neglect to write me, 
dearest friend ! If I get a great deal worse, D. shall inform 
you ; if better, I will write myself. Love to your whole family. 
Farewell. May God forever bless you. 

Your affectionate Julia. 

We copy the following records from a letter of Dr. Scott's, 
dated Towanda, Jan., 1842. 

"Julia suffered much, very much, during last winter and 
spring. She was some better in the first of the summer — able 
to ride out some — but still her throat and lungs were very much 
irritated. A treatise on the medicinal properties of the Red 
Sulphur Springs, Va., fell into my hands. I found that, if true, 
it would meet her case fully. The water is celebrated for its 
control over the arterial and nervous systems, reducing the 
force and frequency of the former, in many cases, in an aston- 
ishing degree, and quieting the latter, so that you would, m the 
language of one who spoke from experience, ' sleep like a log.' 
We started in the early part of July, with Mrs. T., in a carriage, 
and after a drive of fifteen days reached our place of destination. 
Through the lower part of this state, we found ripe cherries, 
and, in Virginia, blackberries in great abundance. Mrs. T., 
who had been afflicted with scrofula for many years, was in 
the habit of eating fruit as a medicine. Julia had been dieting 
for months, but, notwithstanding my remonstrances, they both 
ate to excess. This, together with bad water, deranged their 
systems, and when we reached the springs they were both sick, 
and for a few days alarmingly so. J.'s system was so much 
weakened, that she has not yet recovered from the effects. I 
nursed them, and in the course of a week considered them 
nearly well. J.'s pulse, which had ranged from one hundred 
and ten to one hundred and twenty, was down to about eighty- 
five or ninety, and she rested well nights. In this flattering 
condition I left her, to go back three days' ride to see a favorite 
3* 



30 MEMOIR. 

and valuable horse, one of a span I had purchased for the jour- 
ney, which I had been obliged to leave to recover from an in- 
jury. * * * When I left, I told Julia, if she needed medi- 
cine, to call on Dr. , to whom I had letters, and who had 

been in the habit of calling daily. She needed medicine, and 
the Doctor volunteered to prescribe. She first told him what 
she could not take, owing to idiosyncrasy, and mentioned opium 
particularly ; but he, being an old practitioner, and somewhat 
opinionated, persisted, without her knowledge, in giving her 
opium. She had taken it about a week, and all the while get- 
ting rapidly worse ; when I returned, she was in a wretched 
condition ; chills and fever twice in twenty-four hours — in short, 
with all the symptoms of confirmed consumption. * * * 

" Julia's system was too much unhinged to be benefitted by 
the water. I tried in vain to get her under the influence of it 
again. In addition to her other difficulties, she had paroxysms 
of difficulty of breathing in the middle of the day, which were 
much increased by the great elevation of the springs, (some 
three thousand three hundred feet.) We were between two 
high, parallel mountains, the valley only eight or ten rods wide. 
The sun shone only in the middle of the day — morning and 
evenings cool, and very warm at noon-day. Here was another 
serious objection ; sensitive as her system was, it could not 
adapt itself to these changes : delightful to some, but injurious 
to her. I combatted the difficulty as long as it was prudent, 
in hope to get her system balanced again. After remaining 
something less than four weeks, we started, with three dozen 
bottles of the water, for the valley of Virginia, where the eleva- 
tion is much less, and the temperature more uniform and mild. 
Julia's health improving some, we diverged and visited the Nat- 
ural Bridge. If I had not been reading ' Stephens' Travels/ 
I should say 'magnificent!' but as he has 'used up' that word, 
I can give no description — nor do I think any one can do it jus- 
tice. It must be seen to be understood. Julia, with my assist- 
ance, got down two hundred feet to the bed of the stream, and 
went under the arch, and got back with the aid of three per- 
sons and a chair. She has a very ludicrous anecdote, connected 
with that excursion, to tell you when you meet again. From 
the bridge, or rather from Staunton, we again went out of our 
route to visit Wyer's Cave, also one of the great natural curi- 



MEMOIR. 31 

osities of our country. Julia was unable to go into the cave, the 
entrance being half way up the mountain, and several flights of 
stairs to ascend and descend in the cave. * * * After we 
left this place, Julia was anxious to come the nearest and 
quickest way home. She felt uneasy about George, and was 
very anxious to see him. We reached home in nineteen days ; 
Julia improved in health, but still unable to take any exercise 
except in a carriage. 

" In October we went to Mr. Shepard's, three miles above 
Athens, for Julia to sit for her portrait to Mr. Mount, of New 
York, who was there, recruiting his health, and making pencil 
sketches. He was unwilling to leave his family, and the room 
and light he was accustomed to, to come here, but was anxious 
she should go up. Having known her when in health, he 
thought he could give a good likeness — and he succeeded admi- 
rably, not only in the likeness, but he made a beautiful picture. 
We value it the more, perhaps, from the circumstance that two 
unsuccessful attempts were made by an artist before we went 
south. Julia was worn out sitting, and the artist gave up in 
despair. He said her countenance was constantly changing. 
He could no sooner get one expression in his mind than another 
would chase it out. 

" Since we returned, Julia has not been out of the house, and 
I believe not out of her room. For months, she has had a dis- 
tressing cough, with copious expectoration, profuse night 
sweats, hectic fever, in short, what every one (myself excepted) 
said was confirmed consumption, with the nervous system in 
the most sensitive and excitable state imaginable. You will 
discover that I had something to do. I found that she could 
not live and see company. She pleaded for a few — for a while 
they were admitted. At length I shut her up, and suffered her 
to see no one but the person who makes her bed. She at 
length began to improve, with the aid of powerful medicines 
and my nursing, of course. * * * Julia has a fund of inci- 
dent, anecdote, &c, for the 'Repository,' picked up on our 
journey, but I am in hopes to be able to drive that, together 
with every thought, wish, &c, out of her head, in order to has- 
ten the convalescence. If she had any other mind, or a body 
capable of resisting the ' wear and tear,' or if I could keep her 
perfectly imbecile for a month, I should have no fear of the 



32 MEMOIR. 

result. As it is, I am obliged to administer powerful narcotics 
to keep the system sufficiently balanced to be compatible with 
life." 

One brief extract more, and the records of her life are closed. 

"Julia died last evening, March 5th, 1842, at 7 o'clock, as 
she had often wished, easily and quietly, without a struggle or 
a groan. The most of her time for two days before her death 
was spent in communion with her God. She told me yesterday 
that she had strength given her to pass the preceding night, and 
it was passed happily. I am alone in the room with her — she 
looks calmly, serenely beautiful." 

She lies buried by her own beautiful "river of the hills," 
with murmuring water, and singing birds, and the shifting 
shadows of spring-time, and summer, and gorgeous autumn 
over and around her grave. The pretty " Isle of the Susque- 
hanna," forever hallowed by the tributes of her genius, lies 
nearly opposite — a miniature, in its beauty and gracefulness, of 
the ideal "islands of the blest." She hears not the bland 
winds that play with the long grass and the fallen leaves upon 
her grave; she knows not that the gay -plumed birds of sum- 
mer nutter among the evergreen branches over her head ; she is 
unconscious of the wild requiem sung by her native stream. 
Her black-eyed boy treads gently near her dust, but it feels not 
now the thrill of maternal love ; the hand of widowed affection 
plants the grateful shade and rears the memorial-stone, but no 
look of gratitude repays the kindly deed. Oh! it were bitter 
indeed to rest our reflections here; bitter to think that the 
unconsciousness of the sleeping dust is all that now remains. 
Thank God ! we have faith in her own beautiful words, that 

"Death is but 
A kind and gentle servant, who unlocks, 
With noiseless hand, life's flower-encircled door 
To show us those we love." 

From the various tributes paid to her memory, we select 
the three following. The first is by one who had walked the 
paths of song, hand in hand, as it were, with the " sweet min- 



MEMOIR. 



33 



strel" she laments. Heaven grant her genius a longer and 
sunnier day. 



TO A DEPARTED POETESS. 

BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER. 

Thou art gone from our midst, gentle daughter of Song, 
And thy heart's thrilling music is o'er — 

We have heard thy last strain as it floated along, 
And died on Eternity's shore ! 

Thou hast left us, sweet minstrel ! in sorrow and tears, 
They have smoothed the green turf o'er thy breast, 

Where thou, in the beauty and bloom of thy years, 
Art laid down in silence to rest. 

There 's a seat now left vacant, a dear missing face, 

In the circle around the home-hearth ; 
And the dark wing of Sorrow broods over the place 

Once gladdened with innocent mirth ! 

Yet say, hath thy lay ceased forever? Oh no! 

O'er thy harp still thy spirit is bending ; 
And the strains which seemed those of an angel below, 

With the soft notes of seraphs are blending! 

And, oh, we believe that thou dost not forget 
To be round us, though hid from our sight — 

That the love of thy spirit is true to us yet, 
Though our own may be shrouded in night ! 

Yet tell us ! — stoop down from that star-lighted way 
Which thy feet, " 'mid the seraphim," tread, 

And say if Earth's ties o'er thy spirit have sway, 
In the bright land to which thou art fled ! 

O come ! through our sleep let thy bright vision gleam, 
And our bosoms shall cease to repine, 



34 MEMOIR. 

While our spirits, entranced in some beautiful dream, 
Shall mingle enraptured with thine ! 

Fare thee well, sweetest minstrel ! there 's many a heart 

That pines thy dear image to see, x 
There are fond eyes, that wept when they saw thee depart, 

Still heavy with weeping for thee ! 

Fare thee well ! round thy name, which long, long shall endure, 

While the lily and myrtle we twine, 
We will pray that our hearts may be ever as pure, 

And our lives ever lovely as thine. 



MRS. JULIA H. SCOTT. 

BY REV. DAY K. LEE. 

"Sweet angel, thou art with the ransomed daughters 
Of our dear Lord, rejoicing in his sight ; 
Quenching thy soul'a deep thirst in life's clear waters, 
Crowned with the wreath whose flowers are bathed in light." 

Mrs. Scott. 

" And gentle forms drew near 

And welcomed her to heaven." — Miss Edgarton. 

Another spirit of entrancing song 

Lifts holy anthems in our Father's palace ! 
One seraph more, communing with that throng, 

Presses with radiant lips life's sweetest chalice ! 
The world's attractions, dear and bright to some, 

Were dull to her — the skies contained her treasures, — 
God's loveliest angel came and bore her home — 

She drinketh from the river of his pleasures ! 

As some bright bird, just broke from wiry cell, 
Against whose bars its struggling pinions fretted, 

Soars o'er the rainbow's arch with notes that swell 
More exquisite, more ravishing than ere 't was netted ;- 



MEMOIR. 35 

So that tired spirit burst these fleshly bands, 

Rested her wings upon her angel's pinions, 
Sprung warbling up to greener, sunnier lands, 

And breathed her holiest songs in love's dominions ! 

To say I 'd pressed her hand, 'twas ne'er for me ; 

To share her friendship it was not my gladness ; 
'Twas ne'er the blessing of these eyes to see 

The form whose slumber makes this note of sadness. 
But O, I weep for those who yet remain, 

To know so bright a spirit hath ascended ! 
Fond of that lyre, enraptured of its strain, 

I weep to hear its melodies are ended ! 

Who that is bathing in the living fire 

Of that high faith which ne'er contracts nor wavers — 
Who that hath heard the breathings of that lyre, 

Which seemed the echoes of cherubic quavers — 
Who that hath drunk those melodies that rose 

Sweet as the murmur of celestial fountains ; — 
Has not in fancy pictured her with those 

Whose feet are beautiful upon the mountains ! 

Short years ago, in boyhood's rosy morn, 

When Aspiration seemed its measure brimming, 
Longing for joys that crown the spirit-born, 

I heard the lays of life that she was hymning. 
My soul was anchored high in courts of day, 

I found the spring for which my heart was thirsting : 
The veil of death and doubt was rent away, 

And beams of heaven came on my vision bursting ! 

I 've dwelt afar, where western forests blow, 

Where bright Elysium opens round the stranger; 
Where flowers of rosiest tint and perfume grow, 

And prairie-choristers enchant the ranger. — 
There, to that Eden of earth's loveliest things, 

That sleeping harp hath sent forth many a number, 
Lifting my soul on morn's eternal wings 

To bowers where angel warblings never slumber ! 



36 MEMOIR. 

" That sleeping lyre," sang I. But wherefore this ? 

Why say it sleeps, and that its sounds are dying ? 
That palm-crowned minstrel in her home of bliss 

Strikes it to notes of joy — while we are sighing! 
She clasped it to her, on that angel's flight 

Who bore her up to blessedness immortal ; — 
Waking new music as some holier height 

Of Zion's hill lifted a brighter portal ! 

The seraphs all had joy in fuller streams, 

When her pure lips their symphonies were swelling ; 
They '11 want her there while God's own glory beams, 

And while the ransomed keep their starry dwelling ; 
To hymn the beauty of immortal mind, 

(For of that world, mind is the greatest splendor,) 
Lift holier anthems as new bliss they find, 

And drink new life as loftier praise they render. 

For whom then should the warm affections bleed ? 

For whom the tears gush from their fountains, burning? 
For us ! our spirits have not yet been freed — 

For us ! — our hearts 'gainst aching bands are yearning ! 
But hark, that minstrel's warbling yet I hear 

Melt o'er my soul in sweet reverberation ! — ■ 
The hope she sings of shall my bosom cheer, 

Till I have taken heavenly habitation. 



STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. J. H. SCOTT. 

" Sister, my soul's loved sister, 
I have bidden thee farewell." 

Mrs. Scott. 

All things do call for thee ! 
I hear low breathings 'mid the bright spring-roses, 
And tolling murmurs from the harebells blue ; 
And where the violet on the turf reposes, 
Filling its urn-cup with the sparkling dew, 



MEMOIR. 37 

A soft lament, a wild and sweet deploring 
Calls for thy presence here amid the flowers, — 
The early flowers, o'er which thy heart, adoring', 
Poured forth its gladness in thy brighter hours — * 
All these do call for thee ! 

And more than these — ay, more ! 
Hearts that were linked to thine by strong affection, 
Thy child's young voice in many a mournful cry, 
They who have named thee, by the soul's election, 
The brightest star that shone along our sky — 
These call for thee in tones of thrilling sadness, 
They woo thee back by many a burning tear — 
O ! midst the music of thy heart's deep gladness, 
Canst thou in heaven their wild complainings hear, 

Thou, who art past all grief? 

Thou wert a priestess here ; 
In nature's temple, by her flower-wreathed altar. 
Long hast thou ministered with gifts divine ; 
Thy heart hath been thy prayer-book and thy psalter, 
And every lone bright spot a sacred shrine. 
Thy hymns — O were they not, 'mid glen and mountain, 
Called from thy heart by some resistless power? 
Blending the music of the wild wood fountain 
With the pure sweetness of the summer flower ? 

Were they not, dearest friend ? 

Deep sank their fervent tones — 
Deep in our heart of hearts their praise descended, 
And stirred up burning thoughts and holy love, 
For in their rich, impassioned strains were blended ' 



*Her love of flowers was no unreal sentiment. In one of her letters 
she promised to send me a poem for every species of rare seed or 
slip of plant I could find means to forward to her. Among the beau- 
tiful varieties of shrubs, vines, and flowers, with which her yard was 
literally filled, she showed me some wild clematis vines she had raised 
from seed I had gathered for her on the banks of Bow-Brook. " I do so 
love the sweet flowers," she said — " I am a perfect child about them." 

4 



38 MEMOIR. 

A zeal and beauty sent thee from above. 
No more to us shall those sweet strains be chanted — 
Hushed is thy voice beside life's flowing stream — 
Thou, who so long for clearer waters panted, 
Hast found at last the beauty of thy dream — 
The bright, eternal Fount ! 

We would not call thee thence — 
We would not, bright one, though a dimness lieth 
Along those pathways where thy smile hath shone— 
For thou art now where beauty never dieth, 
And shadows on the heart are never strown. 
Not all of thee, sweet friend, from earth hath perished, 
Our hearts still keep thee, still they love thee well — 
There are thy songs and gentle teachings cherished, 
There shall the memory of thy goodness dwell — 

For good thou wert, and true ! s. c. e. 



POEMS. 



TO HARRIET. 

They sleep, earth's weary children sleep, 
But midnight brings no sleep to me, 

For wakeful thoughts their vigils keep, 
And winds are high on memory's sea, 

And dark remembrances arise 

Like spectres from each tossing wave, 

And scenes, like clouds on April skies, 

Past scenes unveiled before my eyes- 
Would they were in oblivion's grave. 

For what avails it that the heart, 

Whose spring-day visions live no more, 
Should let one truant thought depart 

To young life's high, romantic shore, 
Though e'er so lovely? were they not, 

The smiles, the hopes, of those bright hours, 
But heralds of that darksome lot, 
Unsunned by one redeeming spot, 

A winter in its summer bowers ? 

I write at random — but I feel, 

Oh Harriet ! that 't is hard to brook 

The changes dark which hourly steal 
In altered tone and careless look ; 



40 

Deception, where I had dreamed of naught 

But pure, high-souled sincerity; 
And selfishness, where I had thought 
Heaven's universal spirit taught 

Each earthborn interest to flee ; 

And vanity, and baleful pride, 

E'en amid intellectual fires, 
Like the dread upas reared beside 

Jerusalem's towering spires ; 
And ill-concealed hypocrisy, 

Masking corruption's vaults within; 
And envy, which will never see 
In virtue, truth, humility, 

Aught but the serpent-coils of sin. 

But peace ! I would not dwell too long 

On what each softer feeling sears, 
Although the elements of song 

Are low'ring skies and heartfelt tears. 
Fond memory gladly turns to view 

An Eden, once, still all my own, 
Where weed of darkness never grew, 
Where change ne'er flung her blighting dew, 

And pride hath not a golden throne. 

Thou, thou, my more than sister, thou 

Hast proved the star whose gentle light, 
Like Heimdaller's, gilds the brow 

Of my faint spirit's dreary night. 
Our love has lived as by a spell, 

Through time and absence undiminished ; 
No ice between our hearts hath fell — 
Oh, may it ever be as well, 

Until our earthly course is finished. 



41 



MY CHILD. 

"There is one who has loved me debarred from the day." 

The foot of Spring is on yon blue-topt mountain, 

Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree ; 
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, 

Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. 
From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses, 

To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care : 
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes, 

And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere ; — 
I heed them not, my child. 

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth, 

The golden dandelion by its side ; 
The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth 

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. 
The hyacinth and polyanthus render, 

From their deep hearts, an offering of love ; 
And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender 

Their grateful homage to the skies above ; — 

I heed them not, my child. 

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, 

And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers ; 
While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses, 

Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. 
The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping 

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves ; 
O ! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, 

And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves ; — 
'Tis naught to me, my child. 
4# 



42 

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter ; 

The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth ; 
And now a smaller band comes dancing after, 

Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. 
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending, 

To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast ; 
Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending ; 

Ah ! peace with her is no unusual guest ; 

Not so with me, my child. 

All the day long I listen to the singing 

Of the gay birds and winds among the trees ; 
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing 

A tale of death and its dread mysteries. 
Nature to me the letter is, that killeth, — 

The spirit of her charms has passed away ; 
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth, — 

Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; — 

Thou 'rt in the grave, my child. 

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, 

I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light : 
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ; 

Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. 
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, 

Longing to lay my dust beside thy own ; 
cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me ! 

Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ; — 

Come back to me, my child. 

Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest, 
Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, 

Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : — 
Pray to Him, sinless, He will hear thee now. 



43 

Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother ; 

Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace : 
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other ; 

Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease , — 
Come back to me, my child. 

Come but in dreams — let me once more behold thee, 

As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee, 
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee — 

Belov'd, I will not ask thy stay with me. 
Leave but the impress of thy dove-like beauty, 

Which memory strives so vainly to recall, 
And I will onward in the path of duty, 

Restraining tears that ever fain would fall ; — 

Come but in dreams, my child. 



"GOD IS LOVE." 

If but these words that book contained, 
On which our every hope is built ; 

It were enough, though we had drained 
The very dregs of grief and guilt. 

Love will not harm — love will not pause 
In doing good to aught that 's dear, 

Till nature doth reverse her laws, 

And thwart high Heaven in her career. 



44 



THE LAST LOOK. 

Once more ! once more ! 0, tear me not 

So rudely from this coffined clay ! 
My heart will burst upon the spot, 

Unless its swollen floods have way. 
Another look, ye men of stone, 

On what I ne'er again shall see ; 
Then let the heavy mould be thrown— 

0, would its weight might fall on me ! 

My boy ! my precious boy ! I gaze, 

As mothers oft before have done, 
To treasure up, for gloomy days, 

Some semblance of the buried one. 
Thy cheeks are very pale, my child ; 

Thine eye hath lost its starry light, 
And there 's a spot ! — my brain is wild — 

Go, take him, bearers, from my sight ! 

Yet one more look ! Why should I shrink 

To view thy loathsome work, O death? 
This is the cup that all must drink, 

Who hang their hopes on mortal breath. 
It is his flesh, and it were dear, 

Though spurned by vultures, unto me ; 
Away ! away ! my place is here — 

Where else should childless mothers be 1 

Dear little lamb ! 0, thou wert fair 
As is the fairest morn in June, 

When beauty clothes the very air, 
And every bird and flower 's in tune. 



45 

A merry little bee thou wert, 
Drinking in bliss from every leaf, 

And singing, to thy mother's heart, 
A song that had no tones of grief. 

O, will ye close the coffin's lid? 

And must this be my last, last look 1 
Must that dear form for aye be hid I 

Truly is life a sealed book. 
'T is as ye say — he is in heaven ; 

So may I feel, when sorrow's wave 
No more across my soul is driven ; 

But now my hopes are in — the grave. 



THE FOREST GRAVE. 

" Mourn not for her,— though life was sweet, 
She ne'er before was truly blest, — 
The path grew rough and bruised her feet, — 
She sleepeth now, and taketh rest." 

S. C. E. 

It has a lonely look, that forest grave, 
So hid away from sight of envious eyes, 
Beneath old arching trees. 

The wild-grape hangs 
Its purple fruit with clustering fondness o'er 
The low gray head-stone, and the spotted fawn 
Lies softly down amid the reed-like grass 
Which droopeth at the foot, as if to seek 
Companionship with her who sleeps beneath. 

! sweetly, softly, sadly beautiful, 

Are all things circling that love-hallowed spot, 



46 

Whether it be the hill-side rill which foams 
With grief-like passion o'er its rocky bed, 
Flinging- its white tears back ; or the thick hedge 
Of pale wood-roses, gazing timidly 
On the soft, sun-streaked carpet at their feet ; 
Or the gray mounds and mossy knolls, o'ercrept 
With partridge- vine, whose sparkling berries ne'er 
Lose their rich hue, but lay their coral forms 
Within the moss-cups white. 

An old dark pine, 
That standeth near, doth murmur endlessly, 
With its wild voice, like one bereaved, and ne'er 
On earth with words of comfort to be blest. 
And to its shade there cometh every eve 
A mourning dove, and poureth forth a flood 
Of tender, broken-hearted melody. 

Would'st know the history of her who sought 

In burial a refuge from the world ? 

It is a simple, common tale of love, 

Such as perchance thou 'st heard a thousand times 

Without a tear. 'T is, I had almost said, 

The history of woman. She did love, 

And was betrayed. They saw the light go out 

From her young eyes like the soft glimmering rays 

Of setting stars, nor dreamed the cause, till sleep 

With its untrammeled words breathed out a name 

That made them shudder. Then with trembling hands 

They wrought the victim's grave-clothes, and no more 

Gave ear to hope. 

That wronged one never breathed 
One word against her callous murderer, 
But with a farewell smile for all who came 
To see her spirit take its upward flight, 



47 

A gentle pressure of her sister's hand, 
One tender kiss on her gray father's cheek, 
One thrilling gaze in her pale mother's eyes, 
She whispered of this long-beloved spot, 
And rose to meet the love which eateth not 
The heart away. 



INVOCATION TO POETRY. 

"I said to the spirit of poesy, Come back; thou art my comforter." 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

I, miss thee in my dreams ; 
I miss thee in the laughing bowers 

And by the gushing streams. 
The sunshine hath no gladness, 

The harp no joyous tone, — 
Oh darkly glide the moments by 

Since thy soft light has flown. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

As in the glorious past, 
When the halo of a brighter world 

Was round my being cast ; 
When midnight had no darkness, 

When sorrow smiled through tears, 
And life's blue sky seemed bowed in love, 

To bless the coming years. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 
Like the glowing flowers of spring, 

Ere time hath snatched the last pure wreath 
From fancy's glittering wing ; 



48 



Ere the heart's increasing shadows 

Refuse to pass away, 
And the silver cord wax thin which binds 

To heaven the weary clay. 

Come back, thou art my comforter ; 

What is the world to me? 
Its cares that live, its hopes that die, 

Its heartless revelry 1 
Mine, mine, Oh ! blessed spirit, 

The inspiring draught be mine, 
Though words may ne'er reveal how deep 

My worship at thy shrine. 

Come back, thou holy spirit, 

By the bliss thou may'st impart, 
Or by the pain thine absence gives 

A deeply stricken heart. 
Come back, as comes the sunshine 

Upon the sobbing sea, 
And every roaming thought shall vow 

Allegiance to thee. 



COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 

Oh place not too fondly, my daughter, thy trust 
On the treasures that perish, the things which are dust ; 
For change will o'ershadow thy way with his wing, 
And pluck from thy path every blossom of spring. 

Pour out thy affections on nothing beneath ; 

'T is a wasting of feelings, a savor of death ; 

Few days, and thy dearest shall wither and die, 

And thy bright visions vanish like clouds from the sky. 



49 

Yet vain are my counsels — the youthful and free, 
With their warm kindling' hopes, ever reckless will be ; 
Alas ! 'tis their nature, unmindful to cast 
Scarce a thought to the future, or glance at the past. 

Said I 'twas their nature? Yes, daughter, but thou, 
With youth's brightest bloom on thy radiant brow, 
Draw near, while I whisper a thought that will give 
Thy young- heart a strength every change to outlive. 

As sunlight will steal from the roses their hue, 
When a blight lurks beneath their fair foldings of dew — 
As streams from the mountains unceasingly glide 
Till their waters are mingled with ocean's blue tide- 
So riseth to heaven life's perishless part, 
When decay is at work in the depths of the heart ; 
So a power, though unseen, ever gathereth on high 
The things which, on earth, are too lovely to die. 

Then peace, oh my daughter, whatever thy lot — 
Beams the sunshine of fortune upon thee or not — 
Peace, peace, to thy heart, for the dreams of its love 
Will be blest with a holy fulfilment above. 



THE GRAVES OF CRANDAL AND MARSH. 

They sweetly slumber, side by side, 

Upon the green and pleasant hill, 
Where the young morning's sunny tide 

First wakes the shadows, dark and still, 
And where grey twilight's breeze goes by 
Laden with woodland melody, 
And Heaven's own tireless watchmen keep 
A vigil o'er their slumbers deep. 
5 



50 

They sleep together — but their graves 
Are marked by no sepulchral stone ; 

Above their heads no willow waves, 
No cypress shade is o'er them thrown : 

The only record of their deeds 

Is that where silent memory leads, 

Their only monument of fame 

Is found in each beloved name. 

Oh, theirs was not the course which seals 

The favor of a fickle world, 
They did not raise the warring steel, 

Their hands no bloody flag unfurl'd ; 
They came not with a cup of wrath, 
To drench with gall life's thorny path, 
But, day and night, they strove to win, 
By love, the palsied soul from sin. 

Like two bright stars at eventide, 
They shone with undiminished ray ; 

And though clouds gathered far and wide, 
Still held they on their upward way, 

And still unheeded swept them by 

The threatenings of this lower sky, — 

For they had built upon the Rock, 

Defying tide and tempest's shock. 

To them the vanities of life 

Were but as bubbles of the sea ; 
They shunn'd the boisterous swell of strife ; 

From pride's low thrall their souls were free. 
They only sought by Christ to show 
The Father's love for all below, 
They only strove through Christ to raise 
The wand'ring mind from error's maze. 



51 

But now they sleep — and oh, may ne'er 

One careless footstep press the sod 
Where moulder those we held so dear, 

The friends of man, the friends of God. 
And let alone warm feeling twine 
An offering at their lowly shrine ; 
While all who knew them humbly try 
Like them to live, like them to die. 



MURRAY AT THE GRAVE OF POTTER. 

And is this all, my brother, 

That I may see of thee ? 
This lowly grave where wind and storm 

Hold revel wild and free ? 
I thought to meet thee at thy gate, 

To grasp thy manly hand, 
To hear thy kind voice welcome me 

Back from a distant land. 

I thought to kneel beside thee, 

Dear brother of my heart, 
And hear once more thy full deep voice 

Each warm desire impart. 
I thought to feel thy clasped hands prest 

In blessing on my head, 
And see thy thankful tears — all this, 

And thou — Oh, thou art dead ! 

I thought — but ah ! how vainly 
Comes each remembrance now ; — - 

Hath human thought e'er warmed the dew 
On death's congealing brow ? 



52 



Hath human power obstructed e'er 

The upward spirit's track? 
Or strong inquiring love e'er won 

Aught but its own tears back? 

Yet must my thoughts be with thee. 

Thou holy man of God ; 
Like Enoch's was the perfect way 

Thy upright footsteps trod. 
Thy love was like thy Father's love, 

As sunlight warm and free, 
And poverty and grief had ne'er 

A dwelling-place by thee. 

Thy love was like thy Father's love, — 

It bore upon its wings 
An antidote for every draught 

From sin's polluting springs. 
It won the hardened sinner from 

The evil of his way, 
And taught the mourning heart to bask 

In faith's unclouded ray. 

Thou wert the first to rear to God, 

In this wild western land, 
A temple of impartial grace, 

Ay, with thine only hand. 
And thou the first to welcome him 

Whom thy prophetic eye 
Knew for that Saviour's advocate 

Who wills not man shall die. 

Forgive, oh ransomed spirit, 

These tears — these falling tears ; 

This heart, though aged, is not cold, 
And bright were former years. 



53 



Bright were the years when oft thine eye 

Shone from this very spot, 
And grief o'ercomes me when again 

I look and see thee not. 



MY WILDWOOD BOWER. 

My wildwood bower ! thou art the same 

As when in childhood's morn I found thee ; 
Thy flowers as fresh, thy birds as tame, 

And June's first gales are sighing round thee : 
No foot hath pressed thy balmy fern, 

No hand thy tangled vines unbraided ; 
Time hath not read his lesson stern 

To aught by thy green arch o'ershaded. 

The bee still lingers in the rose, 

The humming-bird upon the laurel ; 
And where yon ivy's tendrils close, 

The violet still imparts her moral : 
No moss has gathered on the spray ; 

My slight pine seat has ceased to moulder ; 
The grass is young, the brook as gay — 

Alas ! am I alone grown older ? 

My wildwood home ! I never seek, 

Save in bright June, thy trellis'd arbor, 

When earth's unsadden'd voices speak, 
And all is joy that thou dost harbor : 

So fondly clings the care-worn heart 

To its first scenes of bliss and brightness, 

In after years it may not part 

With aught that breathes of youth and lightness. 

5# 



54 



WE LOVED. 

We met, we loved. A sunset gleam was straying 

Amid the dim graves where strangers first we met, 
And autumn winds upon their wild harps playing, 

'Mid yellow leaves with tears of evening wet. 
We met, we loved. Oh, grief hath power to waken, 

With its dark weeds, a tenderness which ne'er 
Decays with time, and we were all forsaken — 

The last lone watchers o'er a household bier. 

We loved, as orphan sisters, who have broken 

Full oft the bread of bitterness and wo ; 
As isolated beings, who have spoken 

A farewell to the world of pride and show. 
We loved with that devotedness which buries 

All thoughts of others in oblivion's sea — 
With that endearing confidence which parries 

The shafts of malice and adversity. 

We loved. Through every season, one deep feeling, 

One joy, one grief, one prayer, one pulse was ours ; 
Whether stern winter's voice were o'er us pealing, 

Or gentle sunshine gilding April showers. 
Night ever found us at God's altar bending ; 

Morn saw our hands, e'en as our hearts, entwined — 
Our soaring spirits, as our voices blending, 

In that sweet union earth can ne'er unbind. 

We loved. A tress of silken hair is lying 

Within my hand, more precious than the light; 

She took it from her angel brow while dying, 
And faintly smiled upon the token bright. 



55 

Oh, blessed sister ! when dark earth releaseth 
Her trusting hearts, so long, so sternly proved, 

Will not the eye, which kindred spirit seeketh, 
Say in one deep and thrilling glance — we loved? 



CONSCIENCE. 

" Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not he unpunished." 

BlBLS. 

Why steals he away from the haunts of men, 
To the lonely depths of the mountain glen? 
Why shuns he the light of the smiling day, 
Like the craven owl, or a beast of prey ? 
Why shrinks he abashed at a single glance, 
And his quailing eye looks down askance? 
Why deepens the flush of his varying cheek 
When his quivering lips essay to speak? 
And why, 'mid the solemn hours of night, 
Does he wake, like a timorous bird, with fright ; 
Then cling to his burning pillow again, 
And seek for the blessings of sleep in vain ? 

'Tis Conscience — stern conscience, the judge within. 

Convicting the soul of its load of sin : 

The deeds which his ruthless hand hath wrought, 

Tn their black array, to his sight are brought ; 

He sees the words on the naked wall, 

And he fears that others may read the scroll ; 

The voices of unrequited ill 

Moan over his heart till its blood is chill ; 

He hears the widow's and orphan's cry 

Go loudly up to the threatening sky ; 



56 

And he shrieks in dismay for the grave to hide 
The injured spectres that round him glide. 
Oh, sinner ! lost sinner ! how long before 
Thou wilt seek to enter at wisdom's door? 
How long ere the scales from thy eyes shall fall, 
And thy spirit arise from its shameful thrall? 
Away, away with the lying thought 
That peace and pleasure with crime are brought ; 
Away with the hope ! — like the Dead-sea fruit, 
It will crumble to ashes beneath thy foot ; 
For e'en shoul 1 . the hands of the mighty join, 
Their strength must yield to the power divine ; 
And Conscience, though everything else may sleep, 
Her tireless watch o'er the soul will keep. 



EVENING HYMN. 

Air : — " Safely through another week.' ' 
Day is gone, and peaceful night 

Brings, Lord, our thoughts to thee- 
Thee, from whose all -searching sight 

Nothing hidden e'er can be. 
Wilt thou, Father, condescend, 
"While we sing, an ear to lend? 

Thou hast safely led us through 
Sin and error's thorny way, 

And to our enraptured view 
Opened truth's unclouded day. 

Oh, may all our actions prove 

How we prize thy faithful love. 

By that precious blood which sealed 
Our unworthy spirits thine, 



57 

May we as dear children yield 

Honor to the " Living Vine," 
Till we reach that blessed shore, 
There to praise thee evermore. 



DAVID'S LAMENTATION. 

" I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan ! Very pleasant hast 
thou been unto me. Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
of woman." 2 Samuel i. 26. 

Oh ! there 's a pang of deep distress, 

My brother, at this heart for thee ; 

A wild, a harrowing grief, too strong 

For me to bury silently. 

These tears, these burning tears may tell 

How mighty was the mystic spell 

Of love, which all my spirit won, 

For thee, my brother Jonathan. 

Ay ! let me weep, for I have lost 
A faithful heart, — the only thing, 
Of all earth's beautiful, to which 
My fond, unchanging soul did cling. 
And such a one ! Oh, I will bow 
Low in the dust my aching brow, 
And ne'er these sorrows cease to pour, 
Since thou, my brother, art no more. 

It lives, it lives, it cannot fade, 
The memory of those hallowed hours, 
When in our heart's first bliss we strayed 
Mid golden streams and sunny flowers ; 



58 



And little dreamed we then, that hate, 
And pride, and scorn, could desolate 
So soon the Eden-wreaths which flung 
Their sky-stained hues our hopes among'. 

Thy father's hand — ah, he is dead ! 
But yet, 't was he whose hate pursued, 
With a stern purpose, one who ne'er 
Wished aught to him or his but good. 
But this wild furnace-fire has failed 
To melt one link of that strong chain, 
That spiritual tie which early mailed 
Our willing souls, no longer twain. 

Oh ! it is wonderful, the love 

Which springs in woman's gentle breast ; 

The deep undying principle, 

The high law, " written above the rest " 

By nature's hand, and it will glow 

More fervent through time's onward flow ; 

Yet, strong as woman's love may be, 

Stronger was thine, my friend, for me. 

How hast thou fallen ! Oh thou, whose form 

Was beautiful as light from heaven ; 

Thy look was power, thy arm was strength ; 

How hath their mightiness been riven. 

The stars of night gleam cold and still 

Upon Gilboa's towering hill, 

And lonely, 'mid its depths of shade, 

Are Israel's brightest glories laid. 

Daughters of Jacob ! let the dews 
Of your hearts' sorrows ceaseless fall ! 
Weep Jabesh-Gilead ! let the robes 
Of mourning clothe thy lovely ; all 



59 



Weep ; for our nation's boast and pride 
By unanointed heathen died. 
For me, I '11 mourn from sun to sun 
Thy loss, my brother Jonathan. 



STANZAS. 

" They that sow in tears shall reap in joy." — Psalms. 

Thou, of the young yet shaded brow, 

Has sadness flung its mantle o'er thee? 
Are all thy cherished hopes laid low, 

And gloom and sorrow spread before thee 1 
Has fate thy soul's best prospects blighted, 
Leaving thee weary and benighted — 
Broken thy life's last flowering branch, 
Like an o'erwhelming avalanche 1 
Still hope, pale mourner, coming years 
Will give thee smiles instead of tears. 

Thou, of the tottering step, whose eye 

Time's oft-repeated storms have clouded ; 
The glory of whose summer sky 

The charnel's frequent mists have shrouded ; 
Mourn 'st thou that the ties are riven 
Which kept thy worshipped ones from heaven ? 
Falls that tear, thou lonely one, 
That thy life's sands so slowly run 1 
Peace to thee, weeper, endless joy 
Will soon these gems of grief destroy. 



60 



THE PORTIONLESS. 

Fair child of poverty, thy only dower 
Is thy transcendent beauty, and the gift 
Which nature throws but seldom in a vase 
Of such exquisite workmanship — a heart, 
Pure as the wreath round Appenine's cold brow, 
And true, and gentle, as the constant dove. 

Thy dress is coarse and simple, and thy hands, 
Though small and delicate, are sparkling not 
With many costly diamonds. On thy brow 
No band of woven brilliants tells the tale 
Of lavish partiality. Thy hair, 
In its dark flowing richness, boasteth not 
Of pearl or ornament, save one wild flower, 
Pluck'd from the sterile borders of a rock ; 
Fit emblem of thy lowliness and worth. 

Oh, hast thou thought, young sister, on the lot 
Of poverty's pale daughters — how they toil 
And struggle on beneath the oppressive scorn, 
The cold, unfeeling pride of haughty wealth? 
Thy looks are sad. Thus early doth thy heart 
Bleed 'neath the infliction of deriding power! 
Yet cheer thee up ! there is an antidote — 
Thy Saviour mingled with the lowly poor, 
Thy Saviour wore the peasant's humble garb, 
Thy Saviour had not where to lay his head, 
Yet meekly did he bear the rich one's sneer, 
Nor envied he their pompous luxuries. 
And when the tempter offered to invest 
With princely honors his uncrowned head, 



61 

He spurned the subtle sorcerer from his sight, 
And gave at last his life to bless the poor. 

Sweet sister, be thy youthful soul like his, 

And may he give thee strength to bear, alike, 

Temptation's arts and poverty's dark ills, 

With heart unbent, unmoved, that thou may'st know 

Through life that peace which wealth can never give. 



A MORNING WALK IN S*********. 

INSCRIBED TO MY ESTEEMED FRIENDS, MRS. S. AND M. SMITH, PA. 

" Deemest thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still? 

Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, 

To see the heath-flower withered on the hill, 

To listen to the wood's expiring lay, 

To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, 

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, 

On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, 

And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? 
Oh, if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain." 

Scott's Lord of the Isles. 

'T is early morn — as yet the uprising sun 
The glances of his crimson eye confines 
To the high western ridge, whose foliage dun 
Brightens beneath the yellow kindling lines ; 
The walnut pale, the warrior-crested pines; 
The spreading maple, with its varied hues. 
The rugged oak, o'erhung with clustering vines ; 
The bending sumach, wet with morning dews — 
All catch the smiles which heaven's bright beams diffuse. 

Oh ! brings it not a sadness to the heart, 
A trembling moisture to the heavy eye, 
When thus we see earth's lovely things depart, 
6 



62 

Gathering fresh beauty when about to die 1 
As do the forest trees, we heave the sigh ; 
We pass the dark uncheering gulf of years, 
When those, whose dwelling now is in the sky, 
Too beautiful for these corrupting spheres, 
Arose and left us here, in darkness and in tears. 

A truce to this — we have come forth to share 
The glowing prospect of the opening day ; 
To catch the first sweet breath of mountain air. 
And listen to the waves' unequal play, 
As, eddying round some willow-planted bay, 
They scorn to follow in the onward stream ; 
Or, like a songster weary of his lay, 
Forget their murmurs in a voiceless dream, 
While others muttering on at first as reckless seem. 

O Susquehanna ! river of the hills ! 
How lovely are thy towering banks to me ! 
Adown whose jutting crags a thousand rills, 
Like chafing chargers, thunder wild and free. 
Connecticut and Hudson, true, may be 
By gifted poets more renowned in song ; 
But nature never made them equal thee, 
Thou most delightful of the classic throng ; 
Sublimity and grace alike to thee belong. 

A spirit of unearthly nature broods 

Above the dark blue surface of thy wave ; 

A spirit which still haunts the untrodden woods 

And lingers at the red-man's hollow grave, 

Chanting a death-dirge for departed brave, 

The mourning genius of that lofty race, 

Whose floating barks and flashing arms once gave 



63 

A martial beauty to the wilderness, 
Though now the raised earth shows alone their resting 
place. 

Here in our path this arrow's pointless head 
Is a meet emblem of that scattered band ; 
A broken thing, whose power to harm has fled, 
By haughty foot half buried in the sand. 
This lovely valley, once their hunting land, 
Owns now no vestige of their hardy reign ; 
Wide-spreading orchards rise on either hand, 
The far-stretched fields are brown with ripening grain, 
And neat though humble dwellings smile along the plain. 

Where once the prowling wolf and panther met 
To snarl above the newly murdered deer, 
A temple to the Holy One is set, 
That every contrite spirit may draw near, 
And to truth's message yield the willing ear. 
The distant hills are white with grazing sheep, 
And " lowing herds," which stray devoid of fear ; 
And laughing groups a mirthful pastime keep 
Upon the school-house green, where sparkling stream- 
lets leap. 

Thus time brings change — e'en ye, my friends o'er 

whom 
Kind nature threw a garland passing fair, 
Daily some flattering tints of youthful bloom 
Are yielding to the usurping hand of care ; 
Yet no less dear to this lone heart ye are, 
Ye who have shared my pleasures and my tears, 
And ministered attentions sweet and rare, 
Like angel visitors from holier spheres, 
Bearing affection's wreath undimmed by blighting years. 



64 

But, see, the mist is falling- from the trees 
Before the all-absorbing King of day ! 
A gentle murmur swells the rising breeze, 
The world is waking, with hope's visions gay. 
Oh, we will now retrace our " winding way," 
With feelings chastened by reflecting thought ; 
Happy that He whom warring winds obey, 
To us the pleasant paths of duty taught, 
And praying that through life w T e may offend in naught. 



THE NEW COMMANDMENT. 

"A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as 
I have loved you, that ye also love one another. 5 ' John xiii. 34. 

What was the love of which he spake, 

As bearing to those chosen men 1 
Was it the love which time can make 

Indifferent, and cold again ? 

Was it the love whose strength is based 

On vanity and worldly pride 1 
The love which one slight jar may waste, 

One evil breath may turn aside ? 

He bade them love as he had loved, 

With that deep, faithful glow of feeling, 

Which lingers on unchanged, unmoved, 
'Mid blight and death, its smiles revealing. 

Oh, child of frailty, if within 

Thy soul's dark book one leaf remain 

Unlettered by the hand of sin, 
One bright page free from vicious stain : 



65 



There, write these words — My Saviour, be 
The influence of thy spirit given, 

That I may ever love, like thee, 
My fellow-travellers to heaven. 



INFANT YEARS. 

" Our infant years ! is it not beautiful, 
The light that hovers round them ? " 

Prentice. 

It is depraved, (so many say,) the nature 

Of a sweet, sinless child ; that all its thoughts, 

Its beautiful, glad thoughts, which fling the rays 

Of heaven's own perfect innocence upon 

Features of even seraphic loveliness, — 

That these are but the serpent's subtle train, 

Coiling within the depths of the young heart, 

"With an all-poisoning influence, and that 

Each avenue of the unpractised soul 

Is saturate with the dark flood of sin. 

And is it so ? Oh ! thou whose whitened locks 

Bespeak a lengthened life's experience, 

I do appeal to thee. Where, where, 'mid all 

The varied recollections of the past, 

Where rests the ken of thy dim, sorrowing eye 

With most of yearning fondness 1 

" Oh ! upon childhood. There is naught 
So linked with every holy thought, 
No spot in all life's travels given 
So radiant with the smiles of heaven ; 
No voice that with such freshness comes 
From memory's cold and darkened rooms 
6* 



66 

As that whose tones were bland and free, 
The voice of hallowed infancy. 

" Pure as the first soft breath of Spring, 

Was all my heart's imagining : 

I loved the beauteous earth and sky, 

The trees and flowers — I scarce knew why ; — 

I loved the glorious noonday sun, 

I loved each face I looked upon ; 

And gratefully my bosom glowed 

To Him who had such gifts bestowed. 

" Time never slacks. Dark years have cast 
Their shadows o'er the blissful past; 
Dark toiling years of sin and strife 
Hang bleakly o'er the tide of life ; 
Yet flashes up its narrow stream 
A ray from childhood's sunny beam 
Like day-springs from the realms of light, 
To bless with heaven my longing sight." 

Then cease, ye perverters of the truth, 

Ye, ye who stamp the loveliest of God's works 

With hideous depravity — and make 

Your Saviour's words* but void, unmeaning things. 

Forbear ! and when ye kneel to crave a blessing 

For your young, precious ones, beseech him not 

To change by grace their hard and stubborn nature, 

But that his kind and pitying hand will keep 

Apart from sin their pure, untarnished spirits. 

* " And Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid 
them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Matt. xix. 14. 



67 



WEEP NOT FOR HER. 

Weep not for her — she was too pure 

For such a world as this ; 
No breath of guilt had dared to mar 

Her spirit's holiness ; 
But, sinless as the golden flowers 
That yield their breath in tropic bowers, 
Or the bright gems that span the sky, 
Her few, but joyous years went by. 

Weep not for her — her life was like 

Long months of polar light, 
That glide in fadeless beauty on, 

Undarkened by the night. 
She lived not to behold the dearth 
Of friendship at the social hearth, 
Or, with a crushed and baffled heart, 
To bid hope's darling dreams depart. 

Weep not for her — she did not die 
As those who ne'er have known 

The bliss communing spirits feel 
At a Redeemer's throne. 

She clung not to the things of time, 

Though prospects dawned for her sublime ; 

For faith revealed a Father's love, 

Preparing deathless joys above. 

Weep not for her — she passed away 

Like music on. the sea, 
When wave to answering wave imparts 

The dying melody ; 
Like rainbow hues, that leave the earth, 



68 

To seek the Fount that gave them birth, 
Or the sweet cherub forms which bare 
Their bright wings to the lower air. 

Weep not for her — the glorious bands 

Of heaven surround her now ; 
The wreath of immortality- 
Sits smiling on her brow. 
Oh, rather give thy tears to those 
O'er whom long life its shadow throws, 
Whose cares, and griefs, and follies must 
Weigh down the spirit to the dust. 



STARS. 

Glorious and mysterious creatures that they are ! 
How idle the desire to penetrate the phenomenon of 
their existence ! Yet who hath ever gazed upon them, 
gliding in mournful sweetness through the blue vaults 
of heaven, like diamonds in the chambers of the " vast 
deep," and suppressed a wish to raise the veil of their 
history, and learn the character of the beings with which 
fancy ever peoples the realms of fairy beauty? But, 
alas ! who may ever know more of them, than that 

"There they shine, and there have shone, 
In one eternal hour of prime, 
Each rolling hurningly alone 
Through boundless space and countless time." 

It is natural for us to attach ourselves to the beautiful, 
in inanimate as well as animate nature, and I, though I 
disclaim the appellation of "star-gazer," have never- 
theless more nearly worshipped the lights which form 
the "burning blazonry of God," than aught else upon 



69 

which my eye hath ever rested. I very well remember 
one lovely evening- of my dreaming days, (alas, what 
does youth ever but dream !) we were straying through 
our favorite isle, and watching the increased brilliancy 
of the stars as they stole down one after another from 
their dim resting places, when it was proposed that each 
of us should select one as our favorite, to which we 
would ever affectionately cling as to creatures of life and 
intellect. It was a childish fancy, as of course it might 
be expected, for we were children then — but I remem- 
ber we chose the brightest, and mine was the brightest 
chosen. It was like that which shines so conspicuous 
in the girdle of Cassiopeia. But it was alone ; like a 
master spirit of earth, it seemed to breathe a separate 
atmosphere — its pathway lay along the purple fields of 
the west, and it rolled onward, onward, a world of glori- 
ous mystery, till suddenly a dark cloud o'ershadowed its 
surface ; and when I again beheld it, its brilliancy, like 
the first fond hopes of the poet, had melted down to 
dim and. uncertain glimmerings. Yet to my heart, 

That one lone star, that one lone star, 

Which lingers in the dark blue west, 
Like some neglected isle afar 

Upon the wild sea's heaving breast — 
That one lone star, though faint its ray, 

And tearful every glance it gives, 
Is dearer than the bright array 

Which in fame's glowing circle lives. 

That one lone star — oh, I have drank 

Its twilight beauties, till my eye 
From every earthly object shrank, 

And heaven seemed bending from the sky ; 



70 



And forms more beautiful than light 
When trembling on the dewy spray, 

Came softly on the wings of night, 
To steal my soul's deep griefs away. 

Thou one lone star — the spell is o'er : 

The wing of fancy droopeth now ; 
And my worn spirit lives no more 

To melting voice and angel brow ; 
Yet do I love thee, child of tears, 

For, like the love no change may chil 
Thy beams, assailed by blighting years, 

Are gentle and subduing stilL 



THE BURIAL OF GEORGE PEJEE, 

THE LAST OF THE ROYAL UNCASES. 

Whoever has visited the beautiful and romantic city 
of Norwich, Conn., will remember the Indian burying- 
ground, a small hill to the west,,fmely skirted with ma- 
jestic oaks. Here repose the ashes of Uncas, the 
great friend of the whites, with naught but a gray flag- 
stone to mark the spot. This, however, bears an in- 
scription, no part of which I can recollect, except the 
last two lines, which follow : — 

" For courage bold, and things waregan, 
He was the glory of Mohegan." 

During the President's tour through Norwich, in 
June last, the ceremony of laying the corner stone of 
a monument, to be erected to the memory of Uncas, was 
performed, and an eloquent address delivered on the 
occasion, by Gov. Cass. Soon after this I witnessed 



71 

the burial of George Pejee, the last of the royal family ; 
and it gave me a feeling of deep melancholy to gaze 
upon the degraded train of mourners that followed him, 
and contrast iri my mind their appearance with that of 
their noble and departed ancestors. 

Last of a noble race — the red sun flings 
Its dying splendors o'er thy dusky brow, 

And a low murmur from the wild-wood springs, 
As if some spirit from the dark oak's bough 

Had spread its wings 

To bear thee to thy heaven of happy things. 

Last of the Uncas — not as formerly 

Steal the brave warriors to yon lonely hill, 

With flashing arms in stern solemnity, 

Bearing their precious burthen slow and still, 

And reverently 

Placing the loaded rifle at his knee. 

Oh, not as then — a small and feeble band — 
A mockery of that high and gallant race — 

Around the dead Mohican idly stand, 

Like hunters wearied with the mountain chase ; 

And not a hand 

Grasps now the hilt of trusty forest brand. 

Yet in each dark and half averted eye 
A restless spirit lurks, which seems to say — 

" Though ye have caused our native pride to die, 
Ye whites, and taken our lands and homes away, 

There '11 come a day 

When Manitau each injury will repay." 



72 



A CLOSING SCENE. 

Suggested by perusing a thrillingly interesting passage from the 
" Diary of a late London Physician." 

Sttll dreamed he on — although an icy hand 
Pressed heavily his heart ; and breath and pulse 
Gave an uncertain answer, and the dews 
Of death weighed down his eyelids and displaced 
The life-lines of his cheek. — Still dreamed he on, 
And from his hollow chest the wild thoughts came 
In soft yet earnest murmurs, like the sounds 
Which sometimes, when the winds and waves are 

hushed, 
Steal up from ocean's depths, as if to cheat 
Our hearts into belief of heaven below. 

Still dreamed he on. — Oh ! he had always dreamed ! 
His life had been one wild and frenzied vision : — 
An evening 'neath the tropics, where the moon 
Bewilders with her beauty till the eye 
Forgets the coming darkness, — a dark stream, 
Plunging 'mid subterranean rocks, with joy 
At the imagined sunbeams on its breast, 
And singing gaily down the gloomy vault 
Destined to be its grave. 

Such was his life — 
A magic wand had drawn the fatal ring 
In which he proudly stood, and spurned alike 
The things of earth and heaven, and shut his heart 
'Gainst common hopes and common sympathies. 
He heard no voice but from Parnassus' heights ; 
He spake not but in words of ancient men, 
Deep burning words, iEschylus-like — and owned 



73 

But one desire — one all-absorbing wish — 
To fling his spirit into deathless verse, 
And write his name upon the glowing stars, 
And on the pillars of eternity. 

And time passed on, and health and. life decayed, 
And all life's comforts too, and none was found. 
To clasp his dying hand, save one, who felt 
Some pity, though a stranger. But the words 
Of consolation fell as idly as 
The whispers of the wind. — Still dreamed he on, 
Still lived in his own world — the Poet's world, — 
Still basked in Grecia's smiles, and drank the tears 
Of heaven-bedewed Italia, and resigned, 
At last, his martyred being with the words 
Of Euripides trembling on his lips. 



THE WANDERER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

He did not mingle with them, but his eye 
Gazed earnestly upon each happy face 
Assembled underneath the vine-clad eaves 
Of a New England cottage, and his head 
Assumed a listening attitude, as words 
Of unaffected kindness greeted him, 
The last one welcomed to the social ring ; 
And his lip quivered when each grateful heart 
Sent forth its aspirations, in the deep, 
Emphatic voice of sacred melody. 
Yet stood he still apart, and when the last 
Soft fading ray of sunset bade them seek 
The comforts of the parlor, he was seen 
7 



74 

Gliding with stealthy step along- the banks 
Of the scarce noted Quinnebaug. 

And long did he bathe his fevered brow 

In the waves of the dusky stream, 
And his eye looked down on the golden path 

Of the sun's departing beam ; 
For his spirit had mounted its lightning wing, 

And away in the glowing west 
Did he hail once more that spot, of all 

On earth he loved the best. 

And again did he steal, as in former days, 

Unseen through the garden gate, 
And he crept o'er the hedge, where with beads and 
flowers 

His youngest sister sate ; 
He heard the voice of his brother's flute, 

With its soft and mellow tone, 
And he gazed with a beating heart on each 

Familiar tree and stone. 

And he bent him forward to catch the sound 

That came from the sideling glen, 
As the whoop and tossing arms proclaimed 

That the welcome one was seen ; 
He felt in his pockets the ready hand 

Of each pilfering little wight, 
And he gravely undid the parcel which held 

The gifts of Saturday night. 

" Here, these are for you, and you," he said ; 
But the excited tones of his own voice 
Roused the lone wanderer from his reverie ; 
The spell of fancy passed like light away, 



75 



And his brow sunk upon his trembling hand, 
While mournfully he murmured to himself, 
" Alas ! I only dreamed, I only dreamed." 



THE AGED CONVERT. 

The first impressive prayer was o'er, the hymn's last 

verse was sung-, 
And solemnly its dying- notes along- the arch-way rung - , 
When from his desk the preacher rose, with Heaven's 

immortal book, 
And from among its sacred leaves his holy motto took. 

The aged mourner bent above his brave, his youthful 

dead, 
And on his trembling hand reclined his snow-besprinkled 

head ; 
A heavy sadness dimmed his brow, his furrow'd cheeks 

were wet, 
And mournfully his glances fell upon the pall of jet. 

But he listened not, nor heard the words which would 

have poured 
A balm within his wounded soul, and peace and hope 

restored ; 
He listened not — for prejudice and blinded bigotry 
Had steeled his heart, and made him deem God's truth 

but heresy. 

He listened not — his fancy roved 'mid seenes of happier 

years, 
Ere yet the grave-grass rank had grown beneath his 

moistening tears ; 



76 

When infant voices carolled forth a happy roundelay, 
And all the gloom of care was chased by love's glad 
smiles away. 

But, ah ! a death-tone mingled in each pleasant house- 
hold sound, — 

He saw his cherished ones go forth, in sin's dark fetters 
bound ! 

He followed to their dying beds, he heard their parting 
breath — 

All — all changed — alas ! their doom he thought was 
endless death ! 

Oh, bitter were the tears which fell upon the coffin-lid, 
And deep the unavailing sigh his pride would fain have 

hid, 
And heavy was the old man's heart, that all his hopes 

were gone, 
Garnered and sealed in the pale form of his lamented 

son ! 

"And tears from all shall flee away" — the mourner 

gave an ear ; 
This was the first of heresy his pride had deigned to 

hear ; 
And though he strove to list no more, he could not help 

but cling 
With fondness to those promises, so deeply comforting. 

" The ransomed of the Lord shall come to Zion's holy 

hill, 
And songs of praise and shouts of joy the heavenly 

courts shall fill, 
And every knee shall bow to God, and every tongue 

confess 



77 

That I, the Lord, their helper am, their strength, their 
righteousness." 

Oh, sweeter than the welcome sound of streams in Araby 

Was the " still small voice" that softly spoke his cap- 
tive spirit free ! 

And bright as those pure rays which fell round Israel's 
shepherd youth, 

Appeared salvation's glorious plan arrayed in gospel 
truth. 

A change was o'er the old man's heart, a change his 
looks bespoke, 

And the deep stream of wakened hope from his full 
bosom broke — 

His eyes were raised in thankfulness, his words were 
strong but brief, 

" Oh, Lord, I do believe thee now, help thou mine un- 
belief!" 



THE FIFTH DAY OF FEBRUARY, 1834; 

OR, A SPRING DAY IN WINTER. 

Just like a day in spring — as pure the air, 
As sweet the gushing waters, and as bright 
The laughing sunshine on the purple hills, 
E'en like the early spring. 

The harsh-voiced wind 
Comes now in gentle murmurs. In the west 
Are congregated all the beauteous hues 
Of a soft April evening, and the buds 
Of the encouraged lilac half betray 
7* 



78 

Their hidden emerald to the friendly sun, 
E'en as in early spring. 

Oh, stealeth thus, 
At times, upon the winter-shrouded heart 
The stinted day of joy. 

The angry rush 
Of ever-jarring passion dies away 
Softly, as doth the tempest, when the wing 
Of its great spirit droopeth to the earth 
In preparation for a wilder flight. 
The sun of Hope comes smiling up life's sky 
With healing in its glances, and the fount 
Of human sorrow waxeth dry before 
Its summer-searching beams. 

Yet who hath e'er, 
E'en in these spring-day seasons of delight, 
Forgotten that all-chilling voice which tells 
Of suns that set in clouds — of smiles that wake 
But to conduct the garnered gems of grief, 
And morrows that only dawn to show 
The cheerless prospect of a rayless sky ? 



TO A LONG ABSENT FRIEND. 

Over hill and over valley, 

River deep and forest dark, 
Speed my spirit's tireless pinions, 

Like the wanderer from the ark — 
Seeking thee, my earliest idol, 

Mid the South's voluptuous bowers, 
Where thy life-stream floweth brightly, 

'Neath a lovelier sky than ours. 



79 

Thou art where the proud magnolia 

Sunward lifts her starry eye, 
And the oleander yieldeth 

Incense to the passer-by. 
Fairy music floats around thee, 

Blue streams murmur at thy feet, 
And a rare and grateful homage 

Thy uprising merit greets. 

Admiration gilds thy morning 

With her smiles so bland and free, 
Like a bird at noon thou rovest, 

But at night thou art with me. 
When the moon her silver lustre 

Mingles with the dreamer's rest, 
Then, as in the past, I meet thee, 

And my soul is deeply blest. 

Then I clasp thy dear hand tightly, 

Press thy velvet cheek to mine, 
And with breathless rapture listen 

To that thrilling voice of thine. 
All thy wild and girlish beauty, 

With its later, tenderer hue, 
Flash by turns upon my vision, 

Like the light through drops of dew. 

Sometimes hand in hand we wander 

Through that sweet secluded vale, 
Where our youthful spirits plighted 

Those high vows that ne'er can fail. 
All the old wild paths are chosen, 

Which of yore we loved so well — 
Tangled woods, and mountain passes, 

Mossy grot, and laurel dell. 



80 



Sometimes by the brooklet's margin 

Thy beloved form I see, 
With thy newly braided roses, 

Seated on some fallen tree ; 
Trilling now some ancient ditty, 

Chiming in with wild bird's song. 
And with peals of merry laughter 

Hasting time's dull ear along. 

Sometimes by that " lonely river," 

Where our parting tears were shed, 
When the stars are high, I meet thee, 

As the living meet the dead ; 
Then thy face doth shine upon me, 

As the holy Stephen's shone, 
And thou speakest like the seraphs, 

Bowing at the golden throne. 

Then we talk of those who left us, 

When our hearts were wild with bliss, 
And I feel that thou partakest 

Their eternal happiness ; 
And I turn me from my dreaming 

To the gay and careless world, 
But my spirit's boding pinion 

Still refuseth to be furled. 

Oh, belov'd ! a sad conviction, 

Like an ice-drop, chills my heart, 
That I ne'er again shall meet thee, 

Till life's threads are worn apart ! 
Still I pray, and still I cherish 

Hopes, once more to see thee here, 
If, indeed, thou 'rt not already 

Moving in a holier sphere ! 



81 



DEVOTIONAL MOMENTS. 

These spring-time hours, how sweetly do they glide 

Along the surface of time's murmuring stream ! 
The warm, bright sun diffuseth far and wide 

The life-fraught influence of his mellow beam, 
Green verdure springs beneath the airy tread, 

Fresh odors breathe in every passing gale, 
Young violets smile along their mossy beds, 

And light-winged birds seek out the quiet vale ; 
The mountain rill sings gaily on its way, 

Kissed by the daisies on its pebbly shore, 
And silver clouds along the blue sky stray, 

And on the earth baptismal blessings pour. 

Lovely, most lovely, nature, art thou now, 

Simple, yet queenly, all thy graces are ; 
For He whose hand so richly gemm'd thy brow, 

Of his own spirit gave thyself a share. 
Love is thy heart. Love is the fire that warms 

The slenderest fibre of thy giant frame, 
The breath that gives the majesty of storms, 

Yet quells them with one gently whispered name. 
The billowy sea, the strong rock lightning-cleft, 

The humble dew-drop, the lone forest-flower, 
Each wear the charm by that high spirit left, 

To win the wayward by its quickening power. 

And is there, Lord, one eye that kindleth not 
With holier light while gazing thus abroad ? 

One heart whose fervent prayer ascendeth not, 
With nature's eloquence, to nature's God? 

Thy grace forbid ! The earth is full of thee ; — 
Make thou each soul, most Holy One, the same ; 



82 

Bow down in worship every stubborn knee, 
Illume our shrines with an undying flame, 

Until the law unbroken shall be prest 
To every heart as its supremest good, 

Thy love become the tenant of each breast, 
Thy glorious truth the spirit's daily food. 



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 

Away to the prairies ! the hour is at hand, 
I must fly my sweet home to the paradise land, 
Where the flowers are the brightest, the blue skies more 

clear, 
And the wild-wood is thronged with the elk and the deer. 

Away to the prairies ! Dear father, farewell ! 
Oh, dark is that word, as these tear-drops may tell. 
Farewell, my lone brother ; we part not for long — 
We shall soon join again in the hunter's wild song. 

Away to the prairies ! Sweet sisters, one kiss : 
Belov'd ! may your cups ever sparkle with bliss : 
As bright be your lives as your roses, ye blest — 
But forget not your brother, whose home is the West. 

Away to the prairies ! Oh, bitterest now 
Comes the pang to my heart and the ice to my brow : 
I kneel, but, my mother, thy lips cannot bless* 
Thy heart-stricken child, nor return his caress. 

The death-dew is gathering upon thy pale cheek ; 
To tell thy soul's wishes thy breath is too weak ; 

*He was obliged to leave home at a time when his mother's decease 
was daily expected. 



83 

Thy dimm'd eyelids droop, yet is written beneath, 
" The love of a Mother is stronger than death." 

Away ! dearest mother, we 're passing away, 
Like the spring-loving birds from stern winter's decay : 
Thy home will be bright, but in mine may be tears — 
Oh gild with thy spirit my desolate years ! 

Away to the prairies ! the parting is o'er; 

My steed bounds with joy towards Missouri's far shore : 

My dreams are of mountain, of river, and plain ; 

— Will they bring me my home and my mother again ? 



JUNE TO THE INVALID. 

" Oh, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers, 
To this sick pining heart." Thus sang a child — 
A child of ten soft summers, and again 
Bared to the freshening breeze her roseless cheek, 
Still murmuring as each balmy breath stole by — 
" Oh, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! 

" Thy sunbeams clothe the grass 
"With a more heavenly garment, and the streams 

Whisper, as on they pass, 
The spirit-music which so lives in dreams : 
Gentle and voiceful are thy evening showers, — 
Oh, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! 

" The lilac's breath comes up 
To the high casement purified and bland, 

And from the lily's cup 
Faint odors by the bees' soft wings are fann'd : 
Bright are the birds that seek thy green-leafed bowers,- 
Oh, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! 



84 

" Voices are kinder now, 
And higher, holier influences obtain ; 

Joy sits on each fair brow, 
Nor lights sweet love his altar-fires in vain : 
No shade of gloom o'er nature's empire lowers, — 
Oh, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! 

" Dearest, I would depart, 
While thou dost wreath with smiles the opening grave, 

Giving the throbbing heart 
That holy quiet which the weary crave : 
Oh, faintly struggle now frail nature's powers, — 
Give me my rest, thou month of many flowers !" 

And as the snow-drop folds its pure bright leaves 

Before the tears of night, so gathered up 

With smile and song that frail and beauteous child 

Her robe of mortal happiness, and bowed 

Her eyes to death's sweet sleep — the loveliest flower 

That e'er gave incense to the skies of June. 



THE PARENTS' FAREWELL TO THEIR 
CHILD. 

" Fare thee well, our last and fairest " — 

Dearest Ernma, fare thee well ! 
There is slumber on thine eyelids 

Morning's light can ne'er dispel. 
Vainly hath deep knowledge striven 

With the conquering angel's power ; 
Darkness evermore encloseth 
Thee, our stricken flower ! 



85 



Oh ! as through our happy dwelling 
Like a sunbeam thou didst stray, 

Little did we deem such anguish 
E'er could make our hearts its prey. 

On thy cheek health's rosy lustre 
Such far-reaching promise gave, 

That our weak, unthinking spirits 
Half forgot the grave. 

And that rich, unearthly beauty, 
"Which should ever startle love, 

Only drew our fond hearts closer 
To our little nestling dove ; 

And, entranced, we watched the vision, 
Growing every day more bright, 

Till the death- wind, wildly moaning, 
Swept it from our sight. 

Tears will flow, yet, ah ! how vainly 
Gush the troubled founts of wo • 

Time alone hath power to soften 
Such an overwhelming blow. 

Ever-tender recollections 

Press with melting voices round, 

And each burst of sorrow leaveth 
Sorrow more profound. 

"We behold our little angel 

Wheresoe'er our dim eyes turn, 
And her young lips' thrilling music 
Each sad hour our bosoms burn ; 
And we start with joy, and listen 

For her busy steps at play, 
Till remembrance wildly pointeth 
To the shrouded clay. 
8 



And we feel those dear eyes never 
Shall their pearly lids unclose, 

Nor that sweet, pale brow in slumber 
On our yearning- hearts repose ; 

Never those fond arms caress us 
With their warm and loving- clasp ; 

And we fain would turn and welcome 
Death's unfriendly grasp. 

Yet why should we vainly linger 
By the dear but soulless clay ?- 

Know we not our loved one wingeth, 
Like a bird, her upward way? 

Seeking Heaven's young, happy children, 
In their midst a welcome guest — 

Even now, perchance, she leaneth 
On the Saviour's breast ; — 

And her lisping voice doth whisper 
Thanks that he has called her home, 

Ere the tempter's wiles had lured her 
From life's narrow path to roam ; 

Cherished by such love as never 
E'en a mother's heart can know, 

Bright and happy as the seraph's, 
Far from our deep wo. 



CHRIST'S PARTING WITH HIS DISCIPLES 

As yet 'tis scarcely dawn — the gray mist rests 
In dim and solemn beauty on the boughs 
Which shade the streams of wooded Bethany. 
The wild flower rears her cup to catch the tears 



87 

Sent down from unseen eyes, and the low voice 
Of day's first zephyr whispers 'mid the leaves 
Of the bowed olive, like — O ! love, like thee, 
When first thou speakest to the yielding heart. 

And sleep is on Jerusalem — the dark, 

The blood-besprinkled city ; but the dreams 

Of her unhurnbled Pharisees are fraught 

With troubled memories — not such as shed 

A melancholy radiance around 

The couch of suffering innocence, but wild 

And bloody reminiscenes come up 

From guilt's unsleeping fountain, and the words 

Of him who sought in mercy to remove 

Afar their bitter bondage, greet them now 

Like oracles of fate — too late, too late ! 

And that remorse which righteous Heaven hath made 

To follow crime's red footsteps, even as 

The shadow doth the substance, glares above 

The murderers of Christ. 

But who are these, 
For whom the ponderous gate thus early breaks 
The death-like stillness'? and wherefore do they steal 
At this dim hour towards Bethany's green hills 
Where yet the wild fawn keeps his dewy bed ? 
They are not pilgrims, for they bear nor scrip 
Nor staff, nor sallow parchment. Peasants they seem, 
Few, faint and poor, with thin and tattered garb, 
And sandals worn, and bowed, uncovered heads, 
And looks which speak bereavement ; yet they lift 
On high their mellow voices, and their griefs 
Seem lessened as they sing : — 



88 

" Again, our Father, ere the first 
Faint tinge of morn hath left the sky, 
Or the sweet forest birds have burst 
The sleep which chains their melody — 
We of the scorned yet faithful few 
Who worship thine anointed Son, 
Beseech thee kindly to renew 
The spirits which thy love hath won. 

" Strengthen us, Father, for the hour 
Which breaks our little fold is nigh, 
And our loved Shepherd's voice no more 
Shall thrill our hearts with ecstacy. 
Strengthen us, Father. ! impress 
Each mind with thine unerring will, 
Else may this grief's deep bitterness 
Leave a repining spirit still." 

They pause — for through yon dimly opening glade 
Steals the faint sound of footsteps, and a voice 
Whose lightest whisper hath the power to charm 
The soul to heaven's portals, reaches each 
Scarce breathing listener : — 

"Children!" It is he, 
The dead, the risen, the worshipped — ! to them 
The all of heaven and earth ; and as they kneel 
In silent adoration at his feet, 
Their eyes are fed with beauty, such as ne'er 
Before blest human vision. 'T is the form 
Of him whose hand waved through chaotic gloom, 
And dashed out light from darkness. 'T is the eye 
Whose flashes laid bleak Sinai's summit bare, 
Yet died away like sunset's glow, in sweet 
And tender glimmerings. 'T is the voice 



89 

Which rocked the solid earth, yet grew at last 
So still, so small, so touching, that the heart's 
Deep streams gushed out in floods of blessed tears. 
Oh ! 'tis the glorious image of our God, 
The Father of our spirits — it is Christ. 

" Children " — each brave seeks reverently the ground, 
And all is hushed in silence, while the last 
Deep farewell words are spoken. 

" Children, peace be unto you. Ye have done 

Wisely, my faithful, to obey the call 

Of your true Shepherd — for the setting sun 

Shall look on earth and see ye scattered all. 

But I will bless you, and my words shall be 

As manna to your spirits, and the light 

Of their deep truths shall keep ye ever free 

From sin's strong bonds, and sorrow's gloomy night. 

Blest, O ! ye chosen of my soul, be blest 

On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest. 

" I send ye forth like sheep 'mid beasts of prey, 
To suffer persecution's venomed hate ; 
But murmur not — a voice from day to day 
Shall whisper comfort which can ne'er abate. 
Go forth and preach to error-stricken man 
The gospel of a Father's changeless love. 
So shall ye sweep from earth death's heavy ban, 
And o'er the vulture set the peaceful dove ; 
And blest, O ! chosen of my heart, be blest 
With peace on earth, in heaven with endless rest. 

" Go forth, and let the flame of virtue burn 
So purely round you, that each eye may see, 
Each heart may feel, each spirit joy to learn, 



90 

Children of light, that ye have been with me. 
And I will keep you, for your voice must win 
To my lone pasture countless numbers back. 
Go forth with joy, ye conquerors of sin ; 
Nations shall haste to follow in your track. 
And, O ! be blest, ye chosen few, be blest 
On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest. 

" And now I leave you, little ones, awhile 

To linger 'mid the mansions of decay ; 

But ye shall come where pleasures ever smile, 

And wear the crown which fadeth not away. 

I leave you, but the Comforter shall write 

Truth's glowing lessons on each waiting heart. 

Then fear ye not, but trust — an arm of might 

Shall keep ye from temptation's wiles apart. 

Farewell, ye chosen of my soul ; be blest 

On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest. 

'T is lost — that melting voice is lost amid 
The strains of waiting angels — and the eyes 
Of that pale band, through tears, can but discern 
Dim beauteous wings and floating robes of light 
Far in the blue sky's distance ; yet they rise 
With cheerful hope, rejoicing that to them 
Are given the words of everlasting life, 
With power to speak them to a dying world. 



THE ISLE OF THE SUSQUEHANNA. 

TO . 

Maiden who wearest the angel smile ! 
Say, hast thou been to our fairy isle % 



91 

The pride of our bright-waved mountain stream. 

Lovely as Eden of poet's dream ; 

The sunniest spot of this gladsome world, 

Where the flag of beauty is never furled, 

Where the birds sing on through the changing year, 

And the ivied arbors are never sere 1 

I see it now from my mossy seat, 

I hear its murmuring waves retreat, 

Then hasten back to the sloping shore, 

Like the lover who seeks his doom once more, 

Yet seeks it all for another glance 

At the beauty who scorns each bold advance, 

And mocks his vision with charms that might 

To the heart of a Peri bring delight. 

The noblest trees of the forest there 
Stretch out their arms to the bracing air, 
Hiding amid their foliage dun 
The first fond beams of the rising sun, 
While down at their violet covered feet 
The wild fawn starts from his slumbers sweet, 
To roam unshackled the dingles through, 
And bathe his lips in the scented dew. 

There are such flowers as we sometimes dream 
In the land of love on our brows will gleam, — 
The starry jasmine, the tender rose, 
Looking the soul to a soft repose ; 
And many a wild and nameless one, 
Tinged with the hues of the summer sun, 
Casting a deep, rich light below, 
Where the daisy peeps with its brow of snow. 

And there are arbors of evergreen 

On the deep spring's willowed borders seen, 



92 

And low, sweet music is often heard 

When the laurel leaves by the breeze are stirred, 

And the heart will ache at its dreamy tone, 

When the bright moon walks in her path alone, 

And sisrh for the voices that never more 

May hush its throbs on this mortal shore. 

O, maiden who wearest the angel smile ! 
Away with me to the fairy isle, 
For thou art faithful, and I am lone, 
A shade o'er my spirit the world has thrown ; 
I shrink from its cold and hollow show, 
Blighted and " seared on the heart I go," 
Longing for scenes that are free and wild, 
With the buoyant hopes of an eager child. 

Away with me — and hand in hand 

We '11 wend our steps o'er the pebbly strand, 

Searching for relics of ancient time, 

When the red man stood in his power sublime, 

Watching the bright fish come and go 

In the shallow pools where the waves are low, 

And plucking the sweet wild mint so rare, 

And catching new life from the fragrant air. 

Away, away ; we will gather flowers, 

And sing and sleep through the sultry hours, 

Forgetting that sorrow and sin have e'er 

Drawn forth the sigh and the bitter tear ; 

Dreaming only of holy things, 

Bathing our brows in Parnassian springs, 

Taking no note of the flight of time, 

As he draws us on to another clime. 

Away, away ; when the moonbeams smile 
On river and meadow and deep defile, 



93 

'Tis said that a minstrel, old and gray, 
With his harp of reeds to that isle makes way, 
And takes by those few low mounds his place, 
(The genius he of the dark brown race,) 
And chants with a low and sobbing breath 
A dirge for the chieftains who sleep beneath. 

How sweet to hearken his plaintive hymn 
Echoed back from the grottos dim, 
Answered by waves from the shelving beach, 
A moment borne from the listener's reach, 
Then lulling our own fond hearts at last 
To the world of sleep with its pictures vast ; — 
O, maiden, who wearest the angel smile ! 
Away with me to the fairy isle. 



THE YOUNG MARTYR. 

There was no paleness on her cheek, 

No tear-drops in her eye, 
As from the low, dark prison-house 

They led her forth to die ; 
Her tender hands were manacled, 

Her feet were clothed with chains, 
And on her brow the poison wreath* 

Began its deadly pains. 

Scarce sixteen summers had looked down 

Upon that gentle girl, 
Yet had those few short years to her 

Revealed life's priceless pearl ; 

* See an incident in Moore's Epicurean. 



94 



And in the face of heaven and earth 

She boldly Christ profess'd, 
Though well she knew a death of shame 

Upon her footsteps press'd. 

She bared her bosom to the flame, 

No fears its pure snow shook, 
And fervently her bright lips kiss'd 

God's all-sustaining book ; 
And e'er as through the parted fires 

Her struggling form was seen, 
A smile lit up the dying face, 

All holy and serene. 

Oh, Lord ! if through such scenes as this 

Thine arm hath still sustained, 
While all things else, like fading stars, 

From the poor soul have waned ; 
How should we in our greatest need 

On thy kind breast repose, 
Nor sink in faithlessness away, 

Beneath life's common woes. 



TO A FRIEND IN THE FAR WEST 

Thou hast left thy home, my sister, 

With the friends who love thee best, 
To make thy dwelling 'mid the wilds 

Of the far and lonely West — 
Thou hast left a band of sorrowing hearts, 

Whose hopes were locked in thee, 
To seek in wealth's all-dazzling gifts 

A happier destiny. 



95 

We miss thee, oh our sister, 

In all our smiling bowers ; 
We miss thee in our morning walks, 

In evening's social hours ; 
We miss thy heart-enlivening smile, 

Thy voice so warm and kind, 
And the thoughts which fell like incense flowers 

From thy pure and lamb-like mind. 

Lovely thou wert — ay, lovely, 

In spirit and in form — 
A sunbeam glancing o'er life's tears, 

A rainbow through the storm ; 
A snow-drop 'mid earth's darker hues, 

Unwarmed by flattery's breath ; 
A harp-tone flung from cherub hands, 

Wringing out joy from death. 

Lovely thou wert — ay, lovely, 

And sorrow shared with thee, 
As if magician-changed, became 

A pleasure unto me. 
Life's, sky, though clothed with tempest clouds, 

Grew bright when thou wert nigh, 
And tears e'er turned to smiles beneath 

Thy angel-gifted eye. 

Sister, my soul's loved sister, 

A vacant heart is here : 
The tide of happiness no more 

Through its crystal depths glides clear. 
Crushed hopes are on each tossing wave, 

And broken ties beneath, 
And a dark hand binds each sunny thought 

With a winter-woven wreath. 



96 

Sister, my soul's loved sister, 

I have bidden thee farewell, 
As one who seeks in fatal climes 

With the shadowy dead to dwell ; 
As one who seeks the dazzling midst 

Of the Saviour's white-robed band, 
The garden where love hath no shade, 

" The far and better land." 



A REMEMBRANCE. 



" Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear. 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where?" 

Songs of the Affections. 

Chelsea, sweet Chelsea ! dost thou yet enchant 
All hearts with thy deep loveliness ? Does spring 
Display as erst her treasures 'mid thy hills 
At the young zephyr's soft petitioning breath? 
Comes yet glad summer with her crimson smiles, 
Giving the flowers new beauty, and the streams 
More heavenly reflections ? 

I have dreams, 
Oh! city of my heart, of thee and thine, 
Which fling, at times, around fate's darkling brow 
A chaplet of soft hues, and life doth seem 
Not all a wilderness. Yea, I have dreams. 
When sleep hath set her signet on my brow, 
Unfettering weary mind, I stray amid 
The scenes of happier hours, and hope unfurls 
Once more her star-gemm'd banner, and I bend 
To pluck unwithered roses, and inhale 
The freshness of their bloom. But where are they, 
The loved, the ne'er forgotten, whose dear smiles 



97 

Made then my soul's best Eden? Where are they, 
Which sleep groups in my heart, and daylight scarce 
Consigns to dreary distance ? 

We were blest. 
And one bright eve I do remember well, 
When the soft stars shone as in new-bought robes, 
And the sweet moon smiled sweeter than her wont, — 
We came from God's dear house and gave our thoughts 
To music and to hope. And where are they ? 
One stands on fame's high pinnacle, with wreaths 
Of beauteous hue strown careless at his feet. 
And men approve, and grateful blessings fall 
Upon his noble head — 't is all he asks — 
'T is all he ever asked, and he is blest. 
And one, a kind and generous one, whose cheek 
Was tinged with many summers, but whose soul 
Gave out a spring-like melody — she still 
Keeps on the even tenor of her way, 
Like some unmurmuring stream, which gently laves 
Its perfumed banks. Others perchance now sleep. 
But one was there, a wild yet gentle girl, 
Not very beautiful, but very kind, 
When once you saw her heart, and felt the warmth 
Of feelings which few dreamed that she possessed. 
She did not know the world, and she had thought, 
In her wild home, that merit such as her's 
Could only meet derision, and therefore 
She watched with jealous eye, and often showed 
Indifference where her soul had much of love, 
And this became her curse. 

But where is she? 
Her home is far from hence, and it is said 
Her eye is brightest in the glittering throng, 
9 



98 

Her laugh the merriest, and her earthly lot 
Happy beyond a doubt. But I have heard 
Another and more potent voice which said — 
Read not her heart's book through, for thou wilt find 
More tears than sunshine, and one only page 
Unwritten by the blotting pen of grief — 
The page where God is worshipped. 



THE PRAIRIE COTTAGE. 

A cottage on the prairie ! 't is a wild and lonely thing ; 
The south wind wanders through its rooms with softly 

fluttering wing ; 
The brightest sunbeams kiss the vines that clothe its 

lowly eaves, 
And many a plaintive warbler 'mid its woodbine arbors 

grieves. 

It stands beside a running stream, with green and slop- 
ing banks, 

And in its rear tall forest trees present their waving 
ranks ; 

While far beyond as sight may reach, with undulating 
sway, 

The prairie like some broad lake sweeps in waves of 
light away. 

The cottage of the prairie ! behold, at sunset's glow, 
Upon its soft grass-plat bright forms are flitting to and 

fro, 
The welcome strains oft ring upon the silver air, 
And a voice of melting sweetness sings to the light- 
toned guitar. 



99 

Our home upon the prairie ! though rude and dull it 

seem, 
Time passes 'neath its humble roof like an Eden-tinted 

dream, 
For love doth bind with rosy chain the hearts that dwell 

within, 
And love hath e'er a pleasant voice wherewith from 

care to win. 

Long did we dwell in princely halls, with all that boast- 
ful pride 

With which man strives to wrap the soul that fain from 
God would hide ; 

And long with thankless hearts and lips we broke our 
daily bread, 

Till heaven, in mercy, o'er our path its stern misfor- 
tunes shed. 

Our home upon the prairie ! blest be the peaceful hour, 

When with sad hearts and wearied limbs we reached 
our sheltering bower ! 

No crowd of flatterers welcomed us with words of hon- 
eyed tone, 

But we felt that heaven's approving smile upon our 
spirits shone. 

The cottage of the prairie ! there is no spot on earth 

So dear as this, our cabin home, with its broad and 
cheerful hearth ! 

We pray that God may never let our footsteps from it 
stray, 

But make our graves, our pleasant graves, where na- 
ture's fountains play. 



100 



A FAREWELL TO WINTER. 

Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! 

We part, but be thine all the tears, 
For thy reign has been stern, as the streamlet doth tell, 

While its blithe voice thy burial cheers. 

Thou didst sweep through our valleys in wrath, 

And call the deep snows from the sky, 
Till the white drifts swelled high in the forester's path, 

And the fleet deer no longer could fly. 

Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell! 

We lay thy Methuselah head 
'Neath the grass-covered mounds where thy forefathers 
fell, 

The oft-sung illustrious dead. 

A patriarch thou of the race, 

Subdued by Spring's mellowing glance, 
Thou didst war to the last with a chivalric grace, 

But the sunbeams have broken thy lance. 

Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! 

Thy beautiful victress doth come 
From the far happy South, with the zephyr's soft swell, 

To smile on our desolate home. 

She breathes the low music of love, 

She speaks the sweet language of flowers, 
She brings its young leaves to the sorrowing grove, 

And green vines to the murmuring bowers. 

Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! 
The red rose will bloom on thy grave, 
And the song-bird, perchance, through the echoing dell, 
Will chant a faint dirge to the brave ; — 



101 

But thy name, like all tyrants', will soon 
Sink unblest to oblivion's sea, 
While around the sweet princess who taketh thy throne, 
Will be gathered the happy and free. 



DEATH AT SEA. 

We smoothed away the silken hair 

From her angelic brow ; 
We drew above each upturned orb 

Its lid, as white as snow : 
We gathered slowly o'er her breast, 

Where now the young heart slept, 
The folding of her icy shroud, 

Then turned aside and wept. 

We wept — for our sweet summer bird, 

The loving and the free, 
Had flown, with all its wildwood songs, 

Its thrilling melody : 
And we were on the mighty deep ; 

And well we knew how dark, 
Without the light of those dear eyes, 

Must be our homeward bark. 

We thought upon her sunny smile, 
Warm as her own pure heart ; 

Her ringing laugh, which made the gloom 
From every face depart ; 

We thought upon her brow of light, 
And her low voice of love : 

Alas ! that we remember not 

Such only live above ! 
9* 



102 

She had been with us since the first 

Frail spring-rose saw the light ; 
Had bless'd with us Spain's brilliant morn, 

And fair Italia' s night ; 
And now, with rapt and yearning soul, 

Toward her own home she came, 
And yet upon her fond lips dwelt 

Each well-beloved name. 

Oh, little sister ! with the wreath, 

Twined for that dear one's hair, 
Press now no more thine ear to earth, 

To list her coming far. 
And thou, lone mother, murmuring oft 

' ' When will my darling come 1 ' ' — 
Know that thy precious flower doth bloom 

In a far lovelier home. 

We knelt beside the shrouded clay, 

We gave the last sad look ; 
And, with scarce-beating hearts, our stand 

On the still deck we took : 
We saw her hallowed form descend 

Far down the shelving deep, 
With prayers that, in some coral cave, 

Peaceful "might be her sleep. 



MUSIC ACROSS THE WATER. 

Hush ! Not a breath. A soft low note is stealing 
From the wave's murmuring lip. 0, comes it from 
The spirit of thy precious depths' bright stream, 



103 

Warming my heart that I may never leave 
Thy loved and honored banks 1 

Again, again ! 
There is a little isle half hid in mist, 
Whereon the smiling moon doth look more kind 
Than elsewhere ; and the rising strain doth seem 
To swell from its wild bowers. 'T is there, 'tis there ! 
A clear, lone bugle-note is trembling on 
The stilly air. And now the mellow flute, 
The clarinet, the spirit-stirring drum, 
And all those soul-touched instruments which thrill 
With such wild ecstacy the bounding pulse 
And the vibrating nerve — all, all are joined ; 
And o'er the wave-kissed beach there comes a rush 
Of such ecstatic melody, I feel 
My heart dissolving in its own warm tears. 

Music, immortal music ! thou dost lure 

The spirit from its home. Oh ! leave me not 

With all this darkness round me. Give me wings — 

Give me sweet freedom, music, for thy voice 

Doth whisper secrets of thy lovelier home, 

And I would dwell with thee. 



TO C. M. S. 



Lady, 'tis true " we ne'er have met," 
And true that we may never meet, 

For many a weary mile is set 

Between us, and our days are fleet ; 

Yet say not 'tis a " worthless " one, 

The " offering " which thy hand hath brought, 



104 

Since its solacing 1 tones have won 
Full many a wild and lonely thought 

Of this sad heart to pleasure back, 
And roused that all-responsive chord 

Which time nor change can ever slack, 
So but sweet friendship's voice is heard. 

If thine are not ' ' the thoughts that breathe 

And words that burn," like those which flow 
When genius' frenzied visions wreath 

A chaplet of unearthly glow ; 
Yet, lady, yet not powerless fall 

The glances of thy gentle muse, 
For light more beautiful we call 

When slightly veiled by morning dews — 
More beautiful the rays that tinge 

With chastened smiles the dawning sky, 
Twining amid night's silver fringe, 

Ere the fierce sun has risen high : 
And dearer are the sounds which steal 

In low, soft murmurs on the ear, 
Than such as all-o'erwhelming peal 

With less of melody than fear. 
Nor wilt thou deem it flattery when, 

Fair stranger, from my heart, I say, 
Faint are these emblems to portray 

What thy sweet lyre to me hath been. 

And hast thou ' ' seen a beauteous face 

In inspiration upward lifted?" 
'Tis well thou add'st, " a poetess 

Is seldom with much beauty gifted." 
Oh ! 't were in me most surely wrong 

To hint that stern, impartial nature, 



105 

Had added to the gift of song 

Both fairy form and faultless feature ; 
Nor will I few have likened me 

To Selim's peerless Nourmahal, 
And when beside the ivied tree, 

Where my own mountain torrents fall, 
I 've caught, with careless eye, the light 

"Which my reflected image gave, 
Much fairer I have thought the sight, 

Soft pictured on the purple wave — 
The sight of bending trees and flowers, 

With golden sunshine flashing through, 
Lovely as those which deck the bowers, 

Far, far 'mid ocean's depths of blue, 
Where sinless beings ever stray 

Through fields of never- wasting bloom, 
Living that long unclouded day 

Which ends not in the darkling tomb. 

But this is fancy Oh ! and must 

Alone wild, wayward fancy tell 
Of beings beautiful and just, 

Untainted with earth's passions fell? 
Alone wild fancy — 'tis unfolded, 

The destiny of all beneath, 
The leaven of sin is early moulded 

Into our very thought and breath ; 
Our spirits catch the shades which mar 

The brightness of life's morning dial, 
And mournfully truth's brilliant star 

Goes down 'mid clouds of tears and trial. 
High-sceptred pride becomes the bane, 

The poison of our earthly bliss ; 



106 

She and her dire companions drain 

Our cup of holy-heartedness. 
Ah ! as thou say est, we weakly cling 

To things from time's dark pinion cast, 
And find but this their comforting, 

They 're worse, " far worse than frail at last." 

But peace ■ 't were meet a farewell tone 

Were echoing from my harp-strings now, 
For midnight's sombre hand has thrown 

Oblivious dews upon my brow. 
The world of jarring sound is lost, 

The very waves and winds are still, 
And stars, no more by dark clouds cross' d, 

Sleep sweetly on the misty hill ; 
And on the half- uncurtained pane, 

Where the faint moonlight wanders free, 
My lamp's pale beams, though on the wane, 

Are struggling for the mastery ; 
Yet, ere I speak that word, so oft 

Most fatal to the trusting heart, 
Hear this, my wish — may slumber soft 

To thee its sweetest dreams impart. 
And should kind Heaven allow us e'er 

On time's uncertain shores to meet, 
Oh surely 't were to me most dear, 

The bliss a kindred soul to greet : 
If not to meet it is decreed, 

Still, lady, shall this prayer be mine — 
That providence will ever shed 

Its choicest gifts o'er thee and thine. 



107 



THE INDIAN'S LAMENT. 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 
Thou didst not, and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 
"Where man must dwell alone ! " 

Ivan the Czar. 

The sternness of the aboriginal character is pretty 
well known. But, notwithstanding its apparent indif- 
ference in the family circle, there is doubtless an under 
current of deep and thrilling tenderness, wending its 
way beneath a frigid exterior ; which, but for the in- 
veteracy of custom, would at times break forth. The 
following poem is based upon the supposition. The 
tradition is simply, that an aged Indian chief, called 
Sleepless Panther, was decoyed by an enemy from his 
home, and in his absence his only child, a beautiful 
young girl, was murdered. 

The autumn wind moaned hoarsely through a dark and 

ancient wood, 
Within whose wild and silent depths a lonely dwelling 

stood, 
And the faint red flush of sunset through the half-closed 

door found way, 
Where a form of youthful loveliness in death's deep 

slumber lay. 

Over the still and pallid face an aged warrior bent, 
And mournful were the words that from his full, bruised 

heart found vent — 
A broken arrow at his feet, a bow-string by his side, 
Told that by cold and treacherous hands his dark-haired 

one had died ! 



108 

" "Was it for this," the chieftain said, and winds the 

echo caught, — 
" "Was it for this with eagle speed my forest home I 

sought — 
Scorning the deer that crossed my path, the birds that 

soared above, 
And hearing but that voice whose words were ever 

words of love ? 

" My child — my child — my last, lone flower—the spoil- 
er's hand hath swept 

The beauty from thy fragrant leaves while the Sleepless 
Panther slept ! 

Wo ! for the voice that lured me from my vine-clad 
home away, 

Leaving my young and timid lamb to bloody wolves a 
prey! 

" Fairest thou wert — ay, fairest of all our noble race, 
And the glory of a brighter land shone ever on thy face ; 
Thy step was as the morning breeze upon the silver 

stream, 
And the mournful light of thy dark eyes, like the moon's 

departing beam. 

" Fairest thou wert — ay, fairest — thy form was like the 

pine, 
That sheds its long and slender leaves where deep 

spring waters shine ; 
Thy voice was as the voice of leaves, when the mystic 

dewdrops fall — 
"Wo, that I call upon thee now, and thou answerest not 

the call ! 

" My child — my child — my morning star— the daylight 
of my path — 



109 

One thought of cruel bitterness pursues me in its wrath ; 

I never gave thee look of love, nor spoke one word to 
bless — 

Oh, for one hour to tell thee all this heart's deep ten- 
derness ! 

"One little hour — but thou art gone, like the mist- 
wreath from the hill, 

Thou art journeying to the land of dreams, where the 
moon and stars are still — 

Thine ear will drink the voice of birds where deathless 
flowerets shine, 

And catch from other lips the praise that never fell 
from mine ! ' ' 

And thus he poured his wailings forth, till the moon had 
sought the west, 

When he bore with slow and solemn step his treasure 
to its rest — 

Burying with her — his murdered one — life's last remain- 
ing joy, 

Save the stern hope, ere moons should wane, her mur- 
derer to destroy. 



A DOMESTIC SCENE. 

It was a pleasant scene ! 

An aged, white-haired man, with tremulous voice, 

Had just been reading from the melting book 

Of " the beloved disciple." He had closed 

The holy leaves, and now they knelt them down, 

That grandsire and his numerous family, 

In the dim room where none but Heaven could hear, 
10 



110 

And raised their souls to God. 'T was Sabbath eve, 

Holy, and bright and still. The moon looked through 

With trembling glances the vine-curtained panes, 

And softly lingered on the long white hairs 

Of the bowed patriarch. A shallow brook 

Went slowly singing by the half-shut door ; 

So slowly, that it seemed to linger there 

For the accustomed blessing ; and a bird, 

A sweet, lone, plaintive bird, did add its hymn 

Unto the general worship. 

In the voice 
Of the old man there was a tone which thrilled 
To the soul's depths, and from the fount of tears 
Drew forth rich streams, and made the suppliant feel 
He had a righteous advocate with God. 
He prayed for all men, that time-stricken one, 
And as he dwelt upon the love which would 
At some far period bring all wanderers back 
Unto their Father's house, his whole frame shook 
With strong emotion, and his voice grew faint, 
Till he could speak no more. 

Oh ! long will live 
That hallowed scene in hearts which felt its power 
On that blessed eve. Long, long ; — when all the glare 
And tinsel of this hollow, heartless world 
Are numbered with the vanished things that were, 
'T will be a picture brightening still with time, 
Who ever looketh with a smiling eye 
Upon the imperishable things of heaven. 



Ill 



SUMMER. 

We welcome, beauteous Summer, 

With joyous hearts and free, 
The music of thy dancing winds 

Through wildwood bower and tree — 
Thy golden sunshine 'mid the flowers, 

Thy birds so bright and rare, 
And the soft, delicious scents which steal 

Along thy balmy air. 

A charm thou bearest with thee, 

Sweet season of delight, 
To turn the weeper's tears to smiles, 

To glowing day the night. 
The school-boy's laugh is merrier now, 

Upon the shaven green ; 
And the wild young girls play brisker far, 

Beside the river sheen. 

The eye of careful wealth is seen 

Relaxing from its gloom, 
While gazing on thy far-stretched fields 

Of bright and varied bloom ; 
And the lips of sorrowing age are wreathed 

With many a languid smile, 
When sunset calls around the door 

A noisy, youthful file. 

Thou bindest, gentle Summer, 

All spirits unto thee ; 
The farmer 'mid his ripening fields, 

The sailor on the sea, 
The poet 'mid his moonlight dreams, 

The student at his lore, — 



112 

All givest thou hopes of coming bliss, 
Ere thy sunny days are o'er. 

But mostly in the forests, 

Sweet Summer, dost thou send 
Thy winning ministers, the charms 

Of all thy reign to blend ; 
The whispering leaves, the waterfalls, 

The happy bounding deer, 
The murmuring bees, the moss-clothed flowers, 

The deep streams gliding near ; 

The wild grape bower, through which the sun 

At mid-day faintly smiles ; 
The mimic lake, upon whose breast 

Sleep fairy-seeming isles ; 
The rocky cells, where quiet birds 

Rejoice the livelong day — 
Oh, season dear to all the earth, 

Why wilt thou pass away ? 

Yea, Summer, beauteous Summer, 

Why wilt thou pass so soon, 
Leaving the hopes thy beauty raised 

To perish in their noon ? 
Thy lovely things will seek the halls 

Of cold and stern decay — 
But I know a land where thou dost come, 
And never pass away. 



BLEST ARE THE DEAD. 

Blest are the dead — the sickening strife 
Which marks earth's closing scene is o'er ; 



113 

The cares, the ills, the griefs of life 

Can rack their bleeding hearts no more. 

The clouds which dim our summer sky 
Are shadowless, as rays of light 

When darkness seals the heavy eye, 
And wraps the dreary sense in night. 

Blest are the dead — the flowers which bend 

Like gentle mourners o'er their graves, 
And heaven's own choicest glories blend, 

Fresh to the heart their memory saves. 
They speak as do the summer birds, 

Of beauteous life from dim decay, 
And breathe those sweet, mysterious words 

Which fright the weeper's tears away. 

Blest are the dead — eternity 

Showers down its choicest gifts to them, 
They sit beneath life's golden tree, 

They wear its starry diadem. 
Their light, their life is in the smile 

Of Him whose love looks down on all, 
They fear no change in that far isle, 

No taint of sin, no funeral-pall. 



LINES, 

SUGGESTED BY HEARING A LADY BEWAIL THE ABSENCE 
OF HER HUSBAND. 

I miss thee each lone hour, 

Star of my heart ; 
No other voice hath power 

Joy to impart. 
10* 



114 

I listen for thy hasty step, 

Thy kind, sweet tone ; 
But sorrowing silence whispers me, 

" Thou art alone." 

Darkness is on the hearth, 

Naught do I say ; 
Books are but little worth — 

Thou art away. 
Voices the true and kind 

Strange are to me : 
I have lost voice and mind, 

Thinking of thee. 

Oh, if one little week 

Yieldeth such pain, 
Who through long widowed years 

Life could sustain 1 
Father, this mystic love, 

Grant it, I pray, 
Home in thy courts above, 

When we are clay. 



INFIDELITY. 

Gloomy and dark as the depths of yon ocean, 

(Whose secrets we know not, and seek not to know,) 

When sunlight streams o'er them with tremulous mo- 
tion — 
As if half afraid of the silence below — 

Is the sea where the genius of error reposes, 

Bequeathing to death each high wish of the soul ; 

Reducing to ashes the best of life's roses, 
And bidding the waters of misery roll. 



115 

The sun-flower of hope gazes down the dark mirror, 
But sees not its image — and withers away ; 

And the spring-rose of love casts its bright leaves in 
terror, 
And yields up its beautiful buds to decay ! 

The song-bird of pleasure an instant rejoices, 
Amid the wild cells of the rock-covered shore ; 

But echo sends back many sepulchre- voices, 

And the song and the singer are heard of no more. 

One smile, only, lightens this tomb of the spirit — 

One low wail of music, alone, cleaves the air ; 
'Tis the grim smile of death, who his thousands in- 
herits — 
'T is the music which bursts from the heart of de- 
spair. 



STANZAS, 

ON BEHOLDING THE PICTURE OF MRS. HEMANS. 

Is it indeed on thee, 
Long-worshipped object of my heart ! I gaze ? 

Thee, to whose minstrelsy 
A world on bended knee doth offer praise ? 
How thrill my spirit's inmost depths, while o'er 
Each high angelic lineament I pore, 
E'en as 'twere some departed friend returned, 
With the dear smile for which I vainly yearned ! 

Oh, beautiful thou art, 
High-souled Felicia ! In thy earnest eyes 

(Sweet mirrors of thy heart !) 
Dwell the rich pictures of May-tinted skies, 



116 

Beauteous in all their changes ; while around 
The eloquent lips, half playful, half profound, 
Deep words seem hovering ; and thy pure brow wears 
Most radiantly the gift of many cares. 

And yet, alas ! o'er all 
A mist, a shade of gentle sadness, clings, 

Like the soft twilight's pall 
When night's lone bird its touching requiem sings 
To the far listening stars. Too strongly fell 
On thy young spirit poesy's deep spell, 
Wearing away the tense cords vainly taught 
To pour in words its tide of glorious thought. 

Thy heart's sad history, 
Fair poetess, is written out amid 

Those rich curls clustering free, 
Where grief can ne'er, in one like thee, be hid. 
The cloud's still shadow resteth mournfully 
Where should have been but sunshine. Ah ! thy tree 
Of earthly happiness but blossoms showered, 
To wither round thee when the tempest lowered. 

Love's richest dower to thee, 
As to thy own Properzia, was a light 

Baring the heart's deep sea, 
With all its workings, to the aching sight ; 
Giving, by many a fitful flash, at length 
A knowledge of thy own affection's strength, 
With the dark counterpart — cold, hollow fame ; 
The substance and the shadow, love and name. 

And could a face like this, 
Filled with such soul, encounter one cold glance? 

Oh ! it is more than bliss 
On this faint semblance day by day to chance. 



117 

And this is little. How supremely blest 
The few who knew thee in thy hours of rest, 
And held thy sweet communion ! It is vain, 
And yet I weep that thou art freed from pain. 

I would have seen thee here, 
Enveloped in thy beauteous robe of clay — 

Have listened to the clear, 
Low music of thy voice, ere thou didst stray 
Back to thy native heaven. But now farewell ! 
Too wildly do the waves of feeling swell 
Within this surcharged heart ; and I, erelong — 
Ah ! I shall listen to thy holiest song. 

Erelong ! — meanwhile, the spell 
Which thy sweet lays have cast o'er all things here, 

Fresh in each thought shall dwell, 
Making thine image ever doubly dear. 
No sound from spring's loved haunts, no smell 
Of summer's rose-buds, beautiful and brief, 
But will of thee some bright remembrance tell ; 
Oh, empress of thy sex ! farewell — farewell ! 



A LEGEND OF THE SUSQUEHANNA. 

I know a deep and dark ravine, 

Near our wild " river of the hills," 
Whose depths the sun has never seen, 

Whose very air the bosom chills, 
Though summer heats may reign above ; 

So thick a woof the trees have woven, 
With their old arms, and plants that love 

To creep from rocks by earthquakes cloven. 



118 

A little brook moans ever o'er 

Its log-diverted path below, 
Sometimes with quick and startling roar, 

Sometimes with soft, melodious flow : 
Like the heart's deep, uncertain stream, 

By gushing impulse forced along ; 
Now wild in passion's fierce extreme, 

Now with a gently-murmured song. 

One spot is in that dark ravine — 

I knew it in my childhood's hours, 
For oft, the " spells " of school between, 

I sought it for its drooping flowers — 
Which shows a scallop in the rock, 

Midway the dizzy precipice, 
Where every sound the echoes mock, 

And winds howl through each dim recess. 

A narrow, dangerous path runs by 

That wizzard nook, and onward still 
To an old cavern, dark and high, 

Deep in the bowels of the hill ; 
Where long ago, tradition reads, 

An old man with his only child, 
To 'scape the dues of murderous deeds, 

Sought refuge in the lonely wild. 

He was a fierce, dark-visaged man, 

That aged hermit, and would brook 
No eye his lineaments to scan, 

But ever wore so stern a look, 
That men turned hastily away, 

Young children shrank within the door, 
And women went aside to pray 

The " fiend " might visit them no more. 



119 

And never did he visit them, 

Save when by meagre want impelled, 
And then his child, a beauteous gem, 

The cave a weary prisoner held : 
Oh, sweeter than the wild-flowers there, 

Her only friends, was that pale maid ; 
Though on her brow were clouds of care, 

And in her eye the spirit's shade. 

A young and gallant hunter heard 

One day her plaintive voice in song ; 
He saw her weep ; his heat was stirred, 

To shield that gentle one from wrong. 
They met by night — in secret loved, 

Nor dreamed a lurking footstep pressed, 
With cat-like stealth, where'er they moved, 

Mid all their scenes a silent guest. 

They met — it was their trysting place — 

One evening in that shadowy nook : 
The maiden deemed her sire in chase 

Of game beyond the babbling brook ; 
And in that hour, so long oppressed, 

Her over-burthened heart gave way, 
And on the hunter's throbbing breast 

She breathed her tale of misery. 

She told of days of ceaseless toil, 

Of nights by hunger sleepless made, 
Of many a dark and deadly broil 

Within the forest's awful shade ; 
From whose black depths her sire e'er came 

With bloody hands and cursing tongue, 
And with coarse jests and words of blame 

Her mother's gentle spirit wrung. 



120 

That mother dear had found a grave 

Long ere they sought the darksome den, 
And left her hapless child to brave 

The passions of the worst of men ; 
And since, the maiden whispered low, 

With tearful eye and sobbing breath, 
No mortal breast could ever know 

How fervently she 'd prayed for death ! 

A dull and heavy stroke was heard — 

A shriek upon the evening air — 
A rumbling fall — and night's roused bird 

Flew screaming from her eyry there ! 
The moon looked on that try sting-place, 

Where moss wreaths clothed the ragged stone, 
And saw, with darkly- working face, 

The aged hermit there alone ! 

A hunter heard that piercing shriek, 

And deemed it but the panther's cry ; 
But when his comrades went to seek 

A lost one from their company, 
The lovers' mangled forms they found, 

Within the streamlet's chilly bed ; 
They sought the cave with eager bound — 

The hoary murderer had fled ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A NAMESAKE. 

Has the dark grave o'ershadowed thee, sweet child? 
Has the soft light from thy young eyes departed? 
The rose still blossoms in the lonely wild, 
But thou, the loveliest flower that ever smiled, 



121 

Thou hast bowed down and left ns broken-hearted- 
Thou art with Death, sweet child. 

I know not why my spirit clung- to thee, 

Vision of beauty, only once beheld ; 
Thou wert no more, except in name, to me 
Than many others — but a name may be 

A fount of tears o'er many high hopes swell'd — 
Bright one, I mourn for thee. 

I mourn for thee, for on thy future's sky 
Fancy had joyed in painting scenes of bliss ; 

I saw thee, with high heart and kindling eye, 

The purest and the loveliest outvie, 

While all who knew thee prayed thy happiness — 
But hope is born to die. 

The flower is crushed — the bird has ceased its song— 

The low-voiced harp breathes in a holier sphere, 
Where the full flowing soul, unchecked by wrong, 
Pours its ne'er-dying strains bright streams along — 
Oh, child of love ! to some fond hearts too dear, 
Thou art the blest among. 



SONG— THE FRIEND WE LOVE. 

The friend we love is a friend indeed ; 
She 's ever true in the hour of need ; 
She 's a smile for our joy, and a tear for our wo, 
And a song of cheer when our hearts are low. 
Oh ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; 
She 's ever true in the hour of need. 
11 



122 

The friend we love is youthful and fair, 
And gentle and pure as the angels are. 
Sincerity dwells in her earnest eyes, 
And her soul is warm as the southern skies ! 
Oh ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; 
She 's ever true in the hour of need. 

The friend we love has no cares to mar 
The beautiful hopes of her rising star ; 
She 's good, and she 's happy, as all must be, 
Whose hearts from this selfish world are free ! 
Oh ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; 
She 's ever true in the hour of need. 



COME TO THE FOUNT OF LOVE. 

Come to the fount of love ! 
Come while youth's sun the sky of life is flushing, 

Come while the thoughts of thy young heart are pure, 
Come while the roses in thy path are blushing, 

Come to the fount whose waters e'er endure. 
Come while affection's waves are sweetly flowing, 

Come ere thy sun is glimmering in the west, 
Come with thy young soul in deep ardor glowing, 

Come to thy Saviour, he will give thee rest — 
Come to the fount of love ! 

Come to the fount of love ! 
Leave the wan flowers that deck the fields of passion, 

Leave the false hopes that glitter to betray, 
Leave the vain arts which guide the world of fashion, 

Leave all that make thee linger on thy way. 



123 

Leave the cold doubts that breathe of skeptic weakness, 

Leave the fanatic in his wild career, 
Leave all, and bow thy spirit in its meekness, 

Leave all, and taste of life the waters clear — 
Come to the fount of love ! 

Come to the fount of love ! 
Kneel where the gem of faith is ever gleaming, 

Kneel where the pearl of hope is always bright, 
Kneel where the eye of charity is beaming, 

Kneel, gentle pilgrim, and receive thy sight. 
Kneel, and thy soul shall prove a well of gladness, 

Kneel, and eternal life will soon be thine, 
Kneel, and forget in joy thy spirit's sadness, 

Kneel, and thy heart shall never more repine— 
Come to the fount of love ! 



TO AN INFANT SMILING IN SLEEP. 

Whence, loveliest, that soft and radiant smile, 

That so entrances her who bends above 

Thy gentle, slumbering form? Thou hearest not 

The one dear voice that cheers thy waking hours, 

Nor seest the eye whose love-enkindled glance 

Calls ever forth thy young heart's joyousness, 

E'en though it break through tears. Whence, then, 

the ray 
That lingers on thy sweet and loving lips, 
And on thy soft, half- curtained eyes of blue, 
Making thy beauty of such cherub mould, 
That she who bore thee feels a thrill of fear 
Lest, prematurely, Heaven should claim its own. 



124 

Perchance thy spirit, late from Eden's bowers, 

Forgetteth not its spring-day happiness ; 

But walks in dreams beside the tree of life 

And the eternal rivulet, whose flowers 

Need not the aid of sun and life-fraught dews 

To give them star-like beauty, but receive 

Their wondrous hues from every varied glance 

Of Him who smiles on all. Perchance the words 

Of sister spirits fall upon thy ear, 

Cheering thee on thy lonely pilgrimage — 

Thy path through thorns and tears — and thou dost smile 

To think of that blest home, where, freed from earth, 

Thou shalt in heaven's triumphant melody 

Bear a still higher part. Smile on, fair babe, 

And revel in thy heaven-blent memories, 

And dwell mid angel visions — ere the world 

Hath set its seal oblivious on thy heart, 

And thou canst look beyond this misty earth 

But through the glass of faith. 



THE SPIRIT VISITER. 

I have a spirit visiter — 

She cometh every night, 
When sleep across my heavy lids 

Hath swept his pinions light ; 
She cometh with a noiseless step 

Through the unopened door, 
And glideth as the moonbeams glide 

Across the marble floor. 

Long are her robes, and very white, 
Like winter's first pure snow, 



125 

And as she moves along, they seem 
Like waves of light to flow : 

Her face is radiant with such smiles 
As have not here their birth — 

Ah ! well I know that one beloved 
Hath passed away from earth. 

I had a friend in life's sweet spring — 

How dear I now can feel — 
A fair, fond-hearted, guileless girl, 

Unchanged by wo or weal ; 
She loved me with a love as deep 

As woman's heart may know, 
Nor waned that love when ocean's wave 

Betwixt us 'gan to flow. 

'T is she, my midnight visiter, 

With her dark, soul-moving eye ; 
She speaketh not, but upward points 

As she slowly sweeps me by. 
I know that men will soon exclaim, 

' l Thy early friend is dead ! ' ' 
I know the heavy clods are heaped 

Upon her precious head. 

But well I know, O, bless'd be God ! 

Her gentle spirit lives 
Where bliss, the Sun of Heaven, to all 

Undying rapture gives ; 
I know the memory of our love 

Still glows within her breast, 
When every night she pleads with me 

To seek the heavenly rest. 
11* 



126 

THE FIRST SNOW. 

I love to watch the first soft snow, 

As it slowly saileth down, 
Purer and whiter than the pearls 

That grace a monarch's crown ; 
Though winter wears a freezing look, 

And many a surly frown. 

It lighteth like the feathery down 

Upon the naked trees, 
And on the pale and withered flowers, 

That swing in every breeze ; 
And they are clothed in such bright robes 

As summer never sees. 

It bringeth pleasant memories, 

The falling, falling snow, 
Of neighing steeds, and jingling bells, 

In the happy long ago ; 
When hopes were bright, and health was good, 

And the spirits were not low. 

And it giveth many promises 

Of quiet joys in store ; 
Of bliss around the blazing hearth, 

When day-light is no more — 
Such bliss as nowhere else hath lived 

Since the Eden-days were o'er. 

God bless the eye that views with mine 

The falling snow to-day ; 
May truth her pure white missions spread 

Before its searching ray, 
And lead, with dazzling garments, towards 

" The straight and narrow way." 



127 



VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 

How sweetly steal these soft spring- days above 

Thy grave, lamented one ! Methinks the light 

Of the broad sun a lustre here doth wear 

More rich than elsewhere — the young grass a hue 

Of fresher beauty — while the violets bow 

More gracefully their meek and dewy heads 

Upon the warm earth's breast. The south wind brings 

From yon thick grove of tall and whispering pines 

An incense sweeter than the breath of flowers 

When flowers are loveliest. And from the shores 

Of yonder blue and willow-skirted stream 

Issues a strain of trembling melody 

That angel harps might envy. Oh, beloved ! 

Blest in thy life, thrice blest in early death, 

How pleasant is the spot of thy repose ! 

Would, gentle reader, that my hand might lead 

Thy noiseless footsteps to this humble grave ; 

Or that my voice might breathe into thy ear 

But half her excellence, whose only world 

Was a few loving hearts. 

She was the queen 
Of all our mountain flowers — the fair wild rose 
That bent in glowing beauty o'er the flood, 
And cast its leaves upon the dancing waves 
While yet the blush was on them. Her young heart 
Was warm and sunny as a day in June, 
Yet pure and bland as its succeeding eve, 
When chastened by the moonlight ; and there lived 
In its clear depths a fount of love that had 
Its tribute-streams in heaven. 



128 

She was a child, 
Though twenty summers had looked down on her — 
A very child in sportive playfulness — 
A chaser of the golden butterfly, 
A gatherer of berries and wild flowers, 
A lover of the simplest lay that stole 
From the lone forest's depth. And yet she bore 
In her mind's casket that which might have won 
Fame's brightest coronal ; although to her 
The holy gem was but a lamp to gild 
The gloom of idle hours. 

She did not die, 
As often die the lovely, by the slow 
And torturing warfare of a stealthy foe. 
One little day of dread and feverish strife 
With clinging nature, and she fell asleep, 
Murmuring dear names. And ere time's hand had 

joined 
The thick sods on her grave, a gentle youth, 
Whose love for her had ever been in vain, 
Yet dreamed of its requital in a world 
That hath no disappointments, was laid, 
One starry eve, beside her. 

Peace to them ! 
The loved, the wept, the happy now in heaven, 
Peace to them ! But ah, more to those who bathe 
With annual tears their quiet place of rest — 
Yea, deeper peace to them ! 



129 



HYMN OF THE WESTERN MISSIONARIES. 

We have left the scenes of childhood, 

The friends of early years, 
To journey through the wildwood, 

And weep the pilgrim's tears. 
We have left our own green mountains, 

All gay with sunny flowers, 
And oar silver-glancing fountains, 

For toil and lonely hours. 

But shall our spirits falter, 

While Jesus calls us on? 
Before God's holy altar 

From error's grasp is won ? 
Away with grief and sadness, 

Let every care depart ; 
We bring the oil of gladness 

To many a wounded heart. 

What though dark clouds are o'er us, 

And angry waves beneath, — 
Our Master braved before us 

Wild persecution's breath ; 
What though our zeal may lead us 

O'er danger's wintry track, — 
Our Guide will ne'er deceive us, 

But safely bring us back. 

Then on — his footsteps follow, 

Our banner waves on high ; 
Truth, mighty truth, shall swallow 

Each vulture of the sky. 
On, on, till light descendeth 

To every darkened heart, 



130 

And scripture knowledge rendeth 
All hope from sin apart. 

On, on — we ask no guerdon, 

Enough for us to know 
We take from men the burden 

Of " everlasting wo " — 
We bring them joyous tidings, 

From God, their friend above, 
And bury their backslidings 

In renovating love. 



THE BITTER CUP. 

" The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it V 

Give me that cup ; I may not shrink 

Whate'er the dreaded contents prove^- 
But with unblenching spirit drink 

The bitter draught of chastening love. 
Has not His blessed hand prepared 

In mercy every burning drop ? 
And shall the medicine be spared 

To folly's prayer ? Raise, raise the cup ! 

Father, I drink. Oh, let thine eye 

Rest fondly on thy drooping child, 
Lest in the o'erwhelming anguish nigh 

Her soul of reason be beguiled. 
Thou didst unto thy dying Son 

Vouchsafe a strength all ills to bear ; 
Oh, unto me, thy lowliest one, 

Impart of that high strength a share. 



131 

I drink. It is a bitter draught ; 

I feel the aloed streams within, 
And my sick heart receives a shaft 

Which rankles like the sting of sin. 
An awful revelation opes 

Its lengthened scroll unto my sight — 
Death smiles above my dearest hopes, 

And heaven's bright sun withdraws its light. 

How dark ! Oh, Father, if thou wilt, 

Take the pain-giving dregs away ; 
This little spirit knows no guilt — 

Earth holds no purer, lovelier clay. 
How can I meet that glazing eye 

Imploringly to mine upturned, 
And listen to that anguished cry, 

Nor pray the envenomed cup returned 1 

I drink. Unto my quivering heart 

I press the pale and writhing form ; 
At the death-shriek I do not start — 

I quake not at the rushing storm. 
I feel each faint pulse come and go, 

I mark each laboring breath decrease, 
And smile as death's grim fingers throw 

O'er brow and cheek the veil of peace. 

'T is done — the last dire drop is drained ; 

The rites are o'er, the grave doth close 
Upon my dearer self, nor gained 

Is yet the haven of repose. 
Oh, Father, take me to thy breast ! 

For I am weak, and worn, and chill ; 
Thou wilt not fail to give me rest, 

For I have striven to do thy will. 



132 

There — peace ! I feel a heavenly calm 

Diffused throughout my sinking frame ; 
My Saviour's words, like drops of balm, 

Grief's ever restless billows tame. 
I look beyond the dreary grave, 

To where my hopes relighted dwell, 
And own, though dark the cup he gave, 

Our Father " hath done all things well." 



CHRISTIANITY, IS WHAT 



Is what, dost thou ask ? 'T is the sunbeam that dries 
The night- gathered tear from the violet's eyes — 
That warms the cold earth round the valueless thorn, 
And flings through the darkness a beautiful morn. 

What is it? The perfume which steals from sweet 

flowers, 
When the sick heart is pining for summer's loved 

showers ; 
The rain-drop that falls on the desolate leaf; 
The oil that composes the billows of grief. 

What is it ? The young breeze, whose pinions, unfurled, 
Stay not till their choice gifts have circled the world ; 
A harp-tone at midnight, when nature is still, 
Or the voice of a dove by a pine-shaded rill. 

What is it ? A star on the wild-heaving sea, 
Prostrating the proud on a prayer-bended knee ; 
A fire that refineth the metal within ; 
The canker which gnaws at the vitals of sin. 



133 

What is it? 'Tis mercy, 'tis justice, 'tis truth — 
The staff of the aged, the glory of youth ; 
The rainbow of promise, to brighten our tears ; 
A lamp in death's valley dispersing our fears. 

What is it? Thou askest — thy answer is there 
In thy own swelling heart, with its beautiful prayer. 
It breathes through all nature — it centres above — 
'Tis our own spirit's essence — 'tis infinite love. 



LINES TO A SICK FRIEND. 

The hand of God hath stricken thee, dear friend ; 
Thou languishest in sickness. On thy lip, 
Where a few moons ago the dew of health 
Freshly reposed, the fever-fire now spreads 
Its wasting flame, and thy once blooming cheek 
Doth wear the sorrowing lily for the rose. 

Oh that I might be with thee, in these days 
Of bitter trial — that my hand might smooth 
The pillow for thy ever restless head, 
And my wrung heart pour out to thee the thoughts 
Which swell it now so vainly. But afar, 
I can but weep and pray that Heaven may yet, 
In its unbounded mercy, give thee back 
To health, and hope, and love. Oh ! illy now 
Can they whose souls with thine are intertwined 
As the thick-tendril 'd ivy — illy now 
Can they resign thee to the icy clasp 
Of conquering death ! Thou art to them the spring 
Of life's unshaded desert — the one ray 
That gilds o'erhanging clouds, and robs this world 
12 



134 

Of half its dreariness. How dark were earth 

To these adoring spirits, if thy voice 

Withheld its music, and thy loving eye 

Its glance of tenderness. Oh, thou wilt rise 

From that dark bed, dear friend ! Hope, blessed hope, 

Assures me that thou wilt, and make sad hearts 

Sing out for joy. Yet if, alas ! this hope 

Prove but the fantasy that sometimes gilds 

The gathering storm, still may we all prepare 

To yield thee unto God. Better for thee, 

Far better, blessed one, that thou should'st seek, 

Thus early, thine inheritance, and clasp 

Thy lost ones to thy breast. Thou wilt not fear 

To traverse the dark valley. Jesus stands 

Beside the entrance, and will bear thee through, 

Gently as when on earth he bore the lambs 

In his fraternal bosom. Oh! for thee, 

There is no darkness. Angels wait to draw 

Aside thine earthly veil, and show thee sights 

That it were death to dream in this dull sphere. 

Glory for thee ! there is no shadow in 

Thy onward path. Upward and upward still 

It tends, unto the eternal throne of God, 

Where love is veiled in light ! 0, fare thee well ! 

Beloved friend, and whether thou livest or diest, 

I know that we shall meet — for are we not 

The children of the Lord? And is there aught 

The loving soul can ask in prayerful faith, 

That He will never grant ? 



135 



SPRING. 

My love is very strong for thee, 

Dear, sunny Spring — 
Thou strewest the leaves on memory's tree 

With thy soft wing. 

I hear low voices in thy breeze, 

Of friends long dead ; 
In thy sweet flowers my spirit sees 

Past scenes outspread. 

Thy birds the slumbering sounds awake 

Of olden songs ; 
The music thy glad streamlets make, 

The charm prolongs. 

My childhood's home comes back again, 

With its old trees, 
Its ripening fruit, its waving grain, 

Its humming bees. 

Again I trail my jumping rope 

Beside the hill, 
And with strawberries from the slope 

My basket fill. 

Again with childish awe I stand 

In the old church, 
And for the hymns, with dext'rous hand, 

Begin a search. 

I listen to a voice as sweet 

As Memnon's lyre, 
And my young prayerful pulses beat 

With sacred fire. 



136 

A resurrection morn thou art, 

Dear Spring, to all 
Whose souls with quickened ardor start 

When thou dost call. 



SIN. 

" Oh, wretched man that I am ! who shall deliver me from the body 
of this death ? I thank my God, who giveth us the victory through our 
Lord Jesus Christ." St. Paul. 

There 's a dread companion near me, 

Who my secret bosom scans ; 
Hideous is his form, and frightful 

As the far-famed Caliban's. 

Vainly do I flee his presence, 

Vainly struggle to be free ; 
He is faithful as the shadow 

Which at eve doth follow me. 

And although I hate and loathe him, 

Still his servant I am found ; 
All my thoughts and words and actions 

With his poisonous breath abound. 

What I would do, that I do not ; 

What I would not, that I do ; 
Never-ceasing is my warfare, 

Never conquered is my foe. 

In the deep and starless midnight, 

Bitter thoughts my soul possess ; 
Like a phantom through the noon-day, 

Flies before me happiness. 



137 

Oh, of all most weak, most wretched, 
Who from sin shall set me free ? 

Thanks to God, our blessed Saviour 
Giveth us the victory. 

In his presence sin doth vanish, 
As the night before the day ; 

And his love, when deeply planted, 
Holds an undivided sway. 

Save me, Jesus, ere I perish, 
Write thy name upon my heart ; 

Of myself I can do nothing, 
Do thou rend my chains apart. 



THE MAN WHO TRUSTS OUR FATHER'S 
LOVE. 

The man who trusts our Father's love, 

Meekly and prayerfully, 
Is never tost by storms that sweep 

Life's ever-troubled sea. 

Safely his little bark glides on 

In the wild billow's wake, 
And though the waves dash high around, 

They never o'er him break. 

He sees his Saviour at the prow — 

He knows his hand is there ; 
And 'mid the shoals and threat'ning rocks, 

He moves devoid of care. 

In sunny calms, in whirling storms, 
His voice alike is heard, 
12* 



138 

Proclaiming the glad promises 
Of God's unfailing word. 

And when in death's dark eddying stream 

He plies the trembling oar, 
His triumph hymn is heard above 

The sullen waters' roar. 



THE GOOD CHRISTIAN. 

He showeth his love for his Master's cause, 

By the acts of a righteous life ; 
He beareth reproach with unmurmuring lip, 

He mingleth not in strife ; 
But the orphans' and widows' desolate homes 

With his bounteous gifts are rife. 

He never speaks of the " holy word" 

With an air of levity ; 
But he prays with an humble and fervent zeal 

More pious and just to be ; 
And the name of his God from his praising lips 

Falls ever reverently. 

He shrinketh not from the slander vile, 

Which so oft on his faith is cast, 
But boldly, though prayerfully, day by day, 

Disproves it to the last ; 
And the Sabbath e'er finds him within the church, 

Enjoying a rich repast. 

In sickness he beareth with fortitude 
The stripes of a chastening hand, 



139 

And hymns of joy from his heart gush forth, 

Till life's last wavering sand ; 
And he leaveth the Christian's triumphant death, 

To lighten a sinful land. 



THE POWER OF AFFECTION. 

From an incident in Willis' " Bright Moments Abroad." 

Fair lady, dost thou ask me why 
I shun sweet nature's holiest tie? 
Why with the pilgrim's staff alone 
O'er life's drear waste I journey on, 
Rejecting every precious flower 
That sheds its light in beauty's bower? 
Listen, fair lady, to the lay 
Of a far younger, happier day. 

When first I breathed my Lord's defence, 
With what the world calls eloquence, 
When first with ardent zeal I strove 
To gather to the fold of love, 
I ministered each Sabbath day. 
From my own church six leagues away, 
To a small flock but seldom fed 
With morsels of the heavenly bread. 

'T was a sweet spot, that humble church, 

Surrounded by the fragrant birch, 

With its old windows ivied o'er, 

And tall elms waving at the door ; 

A little brook went laughing by, 

With mellow voice and mirrored sky, 

And in the soft, dim rear was seen 

White tomb-stones 'neath the willows green. 



140 

There, mid those pious worshippers — 
Ah, still that dream my cold heart stirs — 
I gazed upon a youthful face, 
Radiant with intellectual grace ; 
I saw one dark and sparkling eye 
Shrink ever as my glance came by, 
One fair, frail form, with lingering pace, 
Glide out, when o'er the words of grace. 

Lady, how shall I paint to thee 

That face? The soul thou canst not see, 

Nor I portray ; and it were vain 

For emblems Helicon to drain. 

It did not strike me much at first, 

But at each glance new beauties burst, 

Like rays from some presiding gem 

Within a monarch's diadem. 

Weeks sped away, and ever still 
Was there that meek young girl, until 
Her presence to my heart became 
As choice grains to the incense flame ; 
I wrote not but with thought how she 
The merits of my pen would see, 
Nor joyed unless I could descry 
A smile in her uplifted eye. 

Thus, love with silent windings crept 
Into my breast while reason slept, 
And that sweet image day by day 
Came with its undivided sway, 
Attracting every former hope 
Within its all-absorbing scope, 
And wresting forth a heavenly trust, 
To place it on the passing dust. 



141 



1 saw my idol fade away ; 

The crimson wave had ceased to play 

Upon her velvet cheek, and yet 

I felt no fear, and no regret ; 

For holier beamed her saddened eye 

In its angelic purity, 

And heaven's clear light seemed resting there, 

Like star-beams in the midnight air. 

At length, just as my mind was made 

To seek that floweret of the shade, 

And plant it in my inmost heart, 

A voice which, makes the slow pulse start— 

A funeral voice was in my ear, 

And I was called to minister 

Of Gilead's balm to souls that bled 

Above their young, their gifted dead. 

I gazed upon the corpse — 't was hers, 
That meek, that martyred worshipper's, 
The vision of my midnight dreams, 
The life of all my spirit's themes. 
Her gray-haired sire revealed with tears 
The mournful secret of his fears, 
That that young heart, from sin so free. 
That hopeless heart, had died for me ! 

Dost marvel now that I am wed 
Alone unto the gospel Head ? 
Dost marvel that my heart is cold, 
Within its ice-encrusted mould ? 
Lady, since that dark burial hour, 
This breast hath owned no earthly power ; 
Above hath every hope been given, 
Ah ! I shall speak to her in heaven I 



142 



ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED RELATIVE. 

All thy toils and cares are over ; 

Weary pilgrim, take thy rest : 
God in mercy hath recalled thee 

To thy place among the blest ; 
And although we miss and mourn thee, 

Ours are not despairing tears ; 
Well we know we all shall meet thee. 

In a few revolving years. 

Many tender recollections 

Have I, blessed one, of thee ; 
Many sweet and precious tokens 

Of thy watchful love for me. 
Not my own fond, faithful mother 

Could a better guardian prove ; 
All thy counsel was in wisdom, 

Ever thy reproof in love. 

Thine was that excelling virtue 

The pure-hearted only know, 
Thine that unassuming goodness, 

Which in silent deeds doth flow. 
Thou didst make the poor and needy 

In thy presence to rejoice ; 
All the bowed and broken-hearted 

Loved thy peace-inspiring voice. 

Thou wert e'er a lovely pattern 

To the sister, mother, wife, 
All our sex's high perfections 

Centred in thy blameless life. 
Thou didst stay till life's drear winter 

Frosted o'er thv auburn hair, 



143 

But thy heart ne'er lost its fervor, 
While one fluttering pulse was there. 

E'en when death's sharp pangs assailed thee, 

Every feeble breath was love, 
And thy spirit soared, in triumph, 

To the realms of light above. 
Oh, thou 'rt holy, thou art happy, 

Blest beyond all mortal thought, 
But for thee one heart is lonely — 

To one eye this world is naught. 

By his sad and cheerless fireside, 

Bowed with age and heavy wo, 
Sits thy long life's dear companion, 

Praying that he, too, may go. 
There 's no longer one to mingle 

In his every wish and thought, 
All his former hopes and pleasures 

Lack the charm thy presence wrought. 

Oh ! our Father, who in heaven 

Dost earth's pleading children hear, 
To thy faithful, aged servant 

Be thou in compassion near. 
Multiply his spiritual pleasures, 

Fill his soul with heavenly peace, 
Till, by thy paternal mandate, 

Here his pilgrimage shall cease. 



144 



REVELATIONS TO THE DYING.* 

None told her she must die. 
And time wore on, and earth, to her, lost none 
Of its transcendent beauty, nor the voice 
Of hope its lulling sweetness, though the last 
Faint drops of her young heart were icing o'er 
As if chill winds had swept them, and her breath 
Wavered and sank, as doth a wounded bird's. 
Still she hoped on, and smiled, and gazed abroad, 
And raised her pale, thin hands (through which the light 
Streamed as through rose-hued glass) to grasp the 

flowers 
Tendered by those she loved, and warbled forth, 
Though with an infant's feebleness, the songs 
That were so dear, and glanced her dim young eyes 
"With joy upon her wardrobe, and planned out 
For weeping listeners many a festive scene, 
The time she should be well ! 

Oh it is wrong 
To let the young and ignorant go down 
Unto the very borders of the grave, 
Grasping their earthly idols to the last, 
"Without one ray of heavenly light to cheer 
The dark and lonely road. But they whose lives 
Were twined so closely with that suffering girl's, 
Like her were blind, nor heard consumption's voice 
Whisper its awful mandate, and the spell 
Remained unbroken : none could find the heart 
To tell her she must die. 

* The circumstances of the above are no fiction — with a very slight 
alteration, they are what have fallen under the writer's personal observa- 
tion the past year. 



145 

But God is merciful, and doth not leave 
The soul to strive in darkness. One bright morn, 
"When that pale one seemed better than her wont, 
She called her mother to her side, and sang 
A death hymn in her ear. 

" Mother, draw near to me, 
And start not when I tell thee I must die ! 

Should not the birdling flee 
To its far home, when storms are in the sky? 
Dear mother ! ere yon sun is in the west, 
I shall be clasped unto my Saviour's breast ! 

" Restrain those falling tears ; 
Joy, joy — thou givest another child to God ! 

There are no doubts, no fears, 
Shadowing the path by a Redeemer trod ; — 
His smile still lingers in the gloomy vale ; 
Joy for thy child, his promise cannot fail. 

" How strangely I have clung 
To the frail gems of this polluted earth, 

Forgetting him who wrung 
From death's deep dregs our right to heav'nly birth, 
Content to fold my spirit's soaring wings, 
And worship the faint type of glorious things. 

" Oh I would not upbraid, 
Sweet mother, one so kind, so dear as thou, 

Yet, yet thou shouldst have prayed 
With thy sick child, and taught her soul to bow, 
In all its bitter sufferings, to the will 
Of Him whose voice the raven's cry doth still. 

" Then what a triumph hour 
Would this, so full of wo to thee, have been, 
13 



146 

For thy own spirit's dower 
Had been high victory over grief and sin, 
And I as calmly had lain down to rest, 
As when a babe I slumbered on thy breast. 

" But God is merciful, 
And will in time impart rich grace to thee ; 

Fear not, for thou shalt cull 
The buds of faith from life's unwithering tree, 
Such as do in this dying heart now bloom, 
To yield thee fruit when thou hast passed the tomb. 

" Mother, I heard last night 
(Didst thou not hear?) sweet music in the air, 

And to my eager sight 
Came bright winged spirits, with their flowing hair 
And golden harps, and sweetly melting eyes, 
Thrilling my soul with their rich melodies. 

" It was no dream, no dream! 
I felt his glance my trembling bosom scan, 

And like some rushing stream 
His low-breathed words through all my being ran ;— 
Yea, he whose eye on Calvary waxed dim, 
Told me that I this day should be with him. 

" And then they passed away 
With alleluias to the opening sky ! 

Not all — two dear ones stay, 
The sister loves, whose early graves are nigh. 
Dost thou not see them, mother? there they stand, 
Gazing with bright smiles on thee, hand in hand. 

"Oh, how we wept for them, 
The blessed babes, when Jesus called them home, 



147 

To wear a diadem, 
Brighter than princes', — free and wild to roam, 
Like uncaged birds, throughout unbounded space, — 
Would thou couldst now behold each cherub face. 

"But thou wilt see them when 
Death lifts the veil that dims thy vision now. 

I shall be with them then ; 
Pear not, grieved one, let glory gem thy brow, — 
We will sustain thee in the parting hour, 
And guide thee home, for God will give us power. 

" Mother, one farewell kiss ! 
I faint — I languish — now my spirit soars ! 

Oh what o'er whelming bliss 
This dreaded death in my rapt bosom pours ! 
Who talks of darkness ? I am now in light : 
Earth, earth ! thou only wearest the gloomy night." 

She rose to God — and not one eye was wet 

In that hushed room, but every heart drew hope, 

And strength, and trust, from that sweet death-bed 

scene, 
Nor feared again the voice of him whom men 
Have called the King of Terrors ! 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SEVERE ILLNESS. 

I stood beside death's darkly-rolling river, 
With a chilled heart, and dim, unseeing eye ; 

I heard the long-leaved willows hoarsely shiver, 
And the wild winds with icy breath sweep by. 



148 

My spirit faltered as the mad waves o'er me 

Their life-destroying spray unceasing dashed, — 

When, lo ! upon the billowy heights before me 
A vision of unearthly beauty flashed ! 

Thou " Son of man" — thou altogether lovely — 

Thou chief among ten thousand ! it was thee, 
Who, from the cloud that stretched like night above me, 

Didst whisper " peace," as on dark Galilee — 
" Daughter, return to earth ; a work awaits thee ; 

Not yet may close thy tearful pilgrimage ; 
Raise thy weak voice, and to the world that hates me 

Breathe the deep love that gilds thy spirit's page." 

And may I toil for thee, thou deeply slighted ? 

A laborer of the late eleventh hour ? 
Give me the work — my spirit's troth is plighted, 

To do thy will, while thou dost give me power ! 
I go with joy, whate'er may be my mission ; 

Be it to wash thy lowliest servant's feet, 
My soul rejoices in its deep submission, 

And longs in Christ each sorrowing heart to greet. 

Ho ! ye that thirst, come to the blessed fountain, 

Whose source is at Jehovah's crystal throne ; 
Ye weary, rest beside God's holy mountain, 

And eat the bread which giveth life alone. 
There is a peace that passeth understanding, \j 

In the sweet service of Immanuel ; 
His servants fly with joy at his commanding, 

And deathless raptures every bosom swell. 

Ho ! to the fountain ! Fling aside all sorrow, 
Cast down your idols to their native clay, 



149 

Take thought no longer for the coming morrow, 

Treasure not up in halls of dim decay ; 
Drink of life's water freely as 'tis given, 

Drink, and your souls shall dream of thirst no more, 
Drink, and your lives shall be henceforth in heaven, 

And Christ's dear love your portion evermore. 



RESIGNATION. 

Father, thy will be done — 

I sit in grief no more, 
Though 'neath the smiling sun 
Heart never yet before 
Quivered with deeper anguish, than the one 
Which now thou chastenest — but, thy will be done. 

Father, forgive thy child, 
If, in his deep despair, 
Came sinful thoughts, and wild, 
When thou thine arm didst bare. 
Oh, I was deeply stricken, but 'tis done — 
Thine arm hath conquered — may thy will be done. 

The crushed flower may not die 

When the pitying raindrop falls, 
Nor the hand inactive lie 

When the voice of duty calls. 
I rise, O Father, by thy goodness won, 
To do thy bidding — may thy will be done. 
13* 



150 



THE MOURNER'S PRAYER. 

Father in heaven, 
Who knowest all thy children need, before 
The quivering lips their sad petitions pour, 
Be near in mercy to one mourning heart, 
And bid despair's unhallowed shades depart. 

Thy chastening rod 
Hath deeply scourged my spirit, and I bleed ; 
Yet leave me not, O God ! in this my need ; 
Thou hast my idols scattered in the dust, 
But thou art merciful as well as just. 

I come to thee, 
A wearied wanderer, with contrite heart, 
Sick, sick of sin. Thou bid'st not such depart. 
0, Father, take me in thy sheltering arms, 
And shield me from temptation's secret harms. 

I would but live 
In Thee, and in the labors of thy love, 
Knowing no joy that comes not from above. 
0, sanctify me with thy quick'ning grace, 
That I may run in Christ a glorious race. 



A MONODY. 



It is the joyous spring-time. There is brightness 
In every cloud that floats along the sky ; 

The fields have yielded up their robes of whiteness, 
For the green vesture which so glads the eye. 

Mid the low budding shrubs fair birds are singing 
A thrilling welcome to the bright'ning hours ; 



151 

Soft strains of music every breeze is bringing 1 , 
And clonds of fragrance from the forest bowers. 

Little thou heed'st it, stricken bride and mother, 

Wrapt in thy shroud — earth's winter now is thine ; 
Bright springs thou 'st seen — thou 'It ne'er behold 
another, 

Till heaven's unnumbered glories on thee shine. 
Thy warm unsullied heart hath ceased its beating, 

Thy lips' sweet music we shall hear no more ; 
No glance of thine shall answer love's fond greeting, 

Gentlest and best — thy race on earth is o'er. 

Gone from us hast thou, in thy young existence, 

Beloved and loving, prized and mourned by all ; 
Gone ere thy heart had felt the sad resistance 

Of cares which ever from time's hand do fall ; 
Gone while the morning of thy hopes was brightest, 

While blessings o'er thy every path were shed, 
Gone while thy step amid earth's flowers was lightest, 

To sleep the dreamless slumber of the dead. 

Helen ! beloved ! thou couldst not dream while living 

What anguish thy untimely fate must bring 
Some doting hearts — to life's bright picture giving 

The unvarying blackness of the raven's wing. 
O'er thee have fallen drops of such wild sorrow, 

As fall but once above the soulless dust ; 
Such as can scarce one ray of comfort borrow 

From the rich treasures of a heavenly trust. 

Yet why beside thine ashes fondly lingers 

This vain, vain grief? We feel thou art not theie, 

When reason speaks — death's cold, effacing fingers 
Keep not the gem which made thy form so fair. 



152 

It hath a brighter, holier, higher dwelling, 

Boundless, eternal, formed by God's own hand, 

Where day and night the cherub choir is swelling 
A " welcome home " to many a pilgrim band. 

Sweet angel, thou art with the ransomed daughters 

Of our dear Lord, rejoicing in his sight ; 
Quenching thy soul's deep thirst with life's clear waters, 

Crowned with the wreath whose flowers are bathed 
in light. 
Happier, oh ! happier far, than when in beauty 

Thou stood'st thy loved one's manly form beside, 
Whispering to him thy vows of love and duty, 

For now thou art the blessed Saviour's Bride. 

And dost thou, in thy far-off home of glory, 

Still think of those who were on earth so dear ? 
Lingers in memory life's short, fitful story, 

'Mid the high joys of that eternal sphere 1 
Yes. Love is quenchless, deathless, ne'er forgetting ; 

Heaven is its home, for God himself is love ; 
A sun which riseth, but hath ne'er a setting, 

A thought which through all space and time doth 
move. 

Fixed , and yet omnipresent like His spirit, 
Its life and source, " unseen, yet seeing all," 

All bliss, all knowledge, doth it there inherit, 
And all the past its wondrous powers recall. 

Oh, ye sad mourners, bowed and broken-hearted, 
Lift up your heads, redemption draweth nigh : 

Scarce hath your idol from your side departed ; 

Earth's mists but veil her form from mortal eye. 



153 

Still in your midst, at times, her spirit moveth ; 

To your dark souls her voice shall whisper peace, 
When calm submission to God's dealing proveth 

'Tis time the chastenings of his hand should cease. 
Then will she whisper lessons sweet and holy, 

To wean you from the cares of life away, 
And lead you up, with souls subdued and lowly, 

The path which endeth in unclouded day. 



TO A LITTLE GIRL GATHERING FLOWERS. 

Gather thy bright flowers, sweet one, 

Ere their deep hue fadeth ; 
Bind them on thy sunny brow, 

Ere care's dial shadeth — 
Youth to youth, and joy to joy, 

Naught know they of sadness : 
Sunshine, dew, and pleasant showers, 

Make their life of gladness. 

Bind them on thy brow, sweet one, 

Kindly they will tell thee 
How life's blighting winds to shun, 

Should dear hope repel thee ; 
They will bid thee meekly bow, 

When the storm is o'er thee, 
To rise unbroken when again 

Life's sunshine flits before thee. 



154 



THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG 
FRIEND. 

Slowly we bear thee to thy place of rest, 
Sweet flower, by death so early swept away ! 
And bitter anguish thrills each mourning breast 
As our dim eyes the new-made grave survey. 
And must we leave thee in yon narrow bed, 
Dear Margaret, idol of our clinging love? 
Yes, " dust to dust," the stern decree was read, 
By Him who rules in earth and heaven above. 

Oh! lonely will those fond hearts be, to whom 

Thy step was ever as the breeze of May ; 

Thy gladdening smile no more will chase the gloom 

That lingers round life's cloud-enveloped way. 

Never, oh ! never more beside the hearth 

Of that blest home where kindred spirits blend, 

Will thy glad voice ring out its silvery mirth, 

Or thy young face its sweet enchantment lend. 

Thou art at rest ; and crushed affections turn 
With mournful pleasure to the happy past, 
Where, shrined in memory's ever-hallowing urn, 
Still bloom the virtues death has failed to blast. 
Oh, sweet as perfume from the censer's brim 
Is all remembrance, ransomed one, of thee, 
Whether it bear aloft thy dying hymn, 
Or the wild music of thy sinless glee. 

Thou wert in all things lovely, and didst win 
By thy deep gentleness all hearts to thine ; 
With warmth and purity thy soul was twin ; 
O'er thy earth-nature triumphed the divine. 



155 

Oh, it is hard to part with such as thou ! 

Vainly submission checks the starting tear, 

And though the knee may at heaven's chastening bow, 

The heart still lingers by the sable bier. 

" Dust unto dust" — the parting pang is o'er ; 
The loved earth mingles with its mother earth ; 
And as we turn with eyes still running o'er, 
Within our souls bright visions have their birth. 
Hope points exulting to the distant skies — 
Faith lifts her glass — we see thy spirit there ; 
A star within the holy paradise, 
Casting soft radiance on the fragrant air. 

Thou 'rt clothed in beauty, and in those deep eyes 
There lives a bliss undreamed in this cold sphere ; 
From those pure lips such triumph- strains arise, 
As it were death for mortal ears to hear. 
Oh, who would wish thee back to this dull spot, 
Bright heritor of glorious things on high, 
To take on thee again the common lot, 
To sin, to suffer, and again to die ? 

Thou walkest with the Saviour robed in white, 
Thou hearest the tender accents of his love ; 
On thee life's tree showers down its gems of light, 
By seraph hands thy deathless crown was wove. 
Oh ! live in peace ! we will restrain our tears, 
Nor mar the quiet of thy heavenly rest, 
Since time will bear us in a few short years 
To dwell with thee, and be forever blest. 



156 



TO A WIDOWED FRIEND. 

There is one expression in your letter that affected 
us inexpressibly — " Henceforth I am to stem the tor- 
rent alone. Oh ! what a sensation does that one word 
create!" But, although my tears fell freely over this 
natural outburst of grief, my heart readily exclaimed, — 

Oh ! not alone ! Oh not alone! 

Her spirit hovers near, 
With all its deep, undying love, 

Thy darkest hours to cheer. 
Though to thy mortal eyes no more 

Her radiant form is shown, 
A voice from heaven doth whisper me — 

Thou walkest not alone. 

An angel clothed in garments white, 

She moveth at thy side ; 
Youthful, and beautiful as when 

She first became thy bride. 
Her pitying eye with tender glance 

Beholds thy bitter wo, 
And to relieve thy bursting heart 

Bids the sweet fountains flow. 

She sits beside thee in the hush 

Of deep and starless night, 
E'en in that " vacant chair," which brings 

Such anguish to thy sight ; 
She bends above thy feverish bed, 

When thy heart with grief is wild, 
And gives thee dreams of other worlds, 

Glorious and undefiled. 



157 

Her breath is in the first faint breeze 

That fans thy aching brow ; 
Her voice amid the whispering trees, 

Which gently o'er thee bow ; 
Her glance in every ray of light 

That gives thy bosom joy ; 
Her love in every thought of peace 

That bringeth no alloy. 

Oh ! deem not fancy speaks alone ; 

This is the earnest faith 
Of one whose sorrowing heart long since 

Learned what the Scripture saith. 
Angels around our daily paths 

Their blessed influence shed ; 
These angels are our dearly loved — 

Our ne'er-forgotten dead. 

They dwell in heaven, they dwell on earth, 

They dwell in sky and sea ; 
Like him whose mighty vision moves 

Through vast immensity. 
One only weight their bright wings feel, 

Enchaining them to earth ; 
That weight is the repining wo 

Which in our souls has birth. 

Dear brother, let these soothing words 

Thy stricken heart console ; 
Wear still the armor of thy God ; 

Still strive to win the goal. 
Thou shalt not, 'mid life's heavy cares, 

Be left to toil alone ; 
Press on, press on, till Antichrist 

Is driven from his throne. 
14 



158 



ALONE WITH THE DEAD. 

I kneel beside thee, " marble-seeming clay," 
Unseen by mortal eye. But dost thou not, 
Oh shade of her that was in life so dear. 
Look down to this wrung heart % 

There is a smile, 
A sweet, a placid, heaven-enkindling smile, 
Upon that angel face. Methinks it is, 
Oh spirit blest, the shadow of thy wing, 
Tracing soft sunshine on the home which erst 
Gave out such noon-tide radiance — a beam 
Shed from God's holy altar, which will warm 
And renovate at length the prostrate dust, 
And mould it into life. 

I am alone — 
Alone, with death and silence at my side, 
And but a flickering lamp-beam to direct 
Each wild and dream-like thought. Alone ! God, 
What visions crowd upon me — tender, sad, 
Sublime and beautiful ; visions of thee 
And of thy creature man. Life's bubbles burst, 
Time's sands run slowly out, and countless worlds 
Are thrown, like slight partitions, into one 
Broad, boundless heaven of love, whose sun art thou, 
Great Parent, and whose sweet, melodious air 
Is but the harp-like breathings of those hearts, 
Kindled in life and death. 

And what is death ? 
I kiss thee, gentle sister ; thou art cold 
And pale, and hast life's winter on thy brow, 
Its silence on thy lips. But spring will come, 



159 

And thou shalt wear such garlands as the hand 
Of time cannot derange. 

I will arise 
And go with joy about my household cares, 
And give my soul to peace ; for death is but 
A kind and gentle servant, who unlocks 
With noiseless hand life's flower-encircled door, 
To show us those we love. 



DEATH AND THE CHILD. 

I saw a beautiful child at play, 

Among the flowers, 
When a strange old man came round that way, 

In the early hours. 

" I will shorten thy sport, my bonny boy," 

The old man said, 
And he took from his hand each blushing toy, 
. And the child was dead. 

The old man gazed with a grim, cold smile 

On the lifeless one, 
And he said — " They will call me dark, and vile, 

For the service done. 

" But my Master hath need of these holy gems, 

In his garden fair ; 
He grafts such buds on undying stems, 

To blossom there." 

And he breathed in the ear of the sleeping boy 
That Master's name, 



160 

And the child sprang up, with an eye of joy, 
And a heart of flame. 

And he cast his mouldering robe aside — 

His robe of clay — 
And he spread his wings in the sunny tide, 

And soared away ! 

A Mother's eyes were with weeping blurr'd, 

Beside his bier ; 
For the triumph hymn of her soaring bird 

She could not hear. 



HYMN, 

SUNG BY A BAND OF SABBATH SCHOOL CHILDREN AT 
THE PANORAMA OF JERUSALEM. 

Hail ! hail, Jerusalem ! 

Great city of the past ; 
A band of youthful pilgrims come 

To view thy structures vast. 
Our hearts beat warm and high, 

And fain our lips would sing 
A hymn of praise to Him who rose 

To be thy Judge and King. 

Hail ! great Jerusalem ! 

The Saviour dwelt in thee — 
His footsteps pressed thy verdant streets, 

And thy Gethsemane ; 
His infant voice was heard 

Gray-headed pride to dare, 
And in maturer years, on thee, 

Mount Olivet, in prayer. 



161 

Hail ! hail, Jerusalem ! 

He gave thy blind their sight, 
Though with the jest, the taunt, the cross, 

Thou didst his love requite ; 
But he forgave the wrong, 

And on dark Calvary 
Poured out his dear atoning blood, 

A world from sin to free. 

Hail ! great Jerusalem ! 

The fate our Master wept, 
Beneath the arch deceiver's wing, 
■ Within thy walls hath crept ; 
But thou shalt yet become 

Christ's brightest diadem, 
And worlds proclaim to worlds the great — 

The New Jerusalem. 



THE LAST CONFERENCE.* 

I saw a glorious multitude 

Bow down in worship there ; 
While lips, at heaven's own altar fired, 

Sent up the glowing prayer ; 
And hymns of lofty praise were sung, 

In the stirring airs of old ; 
While love's white banner waved aloft, 

In many a silken fold. 

I saw the eye, grown dim with years, 
Flash forth unearthly light ; 

* Alluding to the Conference holden on the last evening of the 
General Convention at Boston. 
14* 



162 

The mourner's care-wreathed brow become 

With heavenly visions bright ; 
And loveliness seemed lovelier there, 

In the blessed garb of youth, 
And lisping infancy more wise, 

In the golden lore of truth. 

It was a glorious jubilee — 

A high-wrought happiness — 
And tears, warm, heart-felt tears alone, 

Could tell of its excess. 
Oh ! many an eye was moist, that ne'er 

Had wept for joy before, 
And many a callous heart grew soft, 

Ere that blessed eve was o'er ! 

"Was not our Master in the midst, 

Ye cross-tried soldiers, say % 
Did not his holy spirit breathe 

In every burning lay ? 
Did not his melting voice supply 

Those hallowed words, that fell 
Like manna, from the hand of God, 

To fainting Israel ? 

Yea, in our midst, that form beloved 

Stood as in days gone by ; 
We knew it by the deep-drawn breath, 

And the uplifted eye ; 
We knew it by the love which linked 

So close each fervent heart, 
Yet gave us strength, with smiles of hope, 

In the last sad hour to part. 



163 

Oh! never more, in earthly halls, 

Shall meet that happy band ; 
Already some* have travelled home, 

To the glorious Father-land. 
And one by one we 're following on, 

To a Conference above, 
Where all may break and eat the bread 

Of everlasting love. 



STANZAS. 



I am weary, I am weary — of this grief-o'erclouded. 

earth ; 
Give me the glorious "Father-land," where the spirit 

has its birth ; 
Where hope is not a fragile bark, borne down by every 

gale, 
Nor love a word of fearfulness, making the bright 

cheek pale. 

I am weary, I am weary. The song of youth is 

o'er ; 
I hear its last, faint, dying notes, on memory's winding 

shore ; 
The sunshine of a happy heart is fading fast away — 
Give me the land where time and change are broken in 

their sway. 

I am weary, I am weary. The cry of human wrongs, 
From hill, and stream, and distant vale, each passing 
breeze prolongs ; 

* The brother of Elhanan Winchester, while there apparently in good 
health, died before reaching home. 



164 

I sicken at the oft-told tale of sinfulness and strife ; 
Give me the fruit which bears no ill, fresh from the 
tree of life. 

I am weary, I am WEARY. The ties which bind me 

here, 
Though bright, and beautiful, and strong, are garnished 

o'er with fear ; 
I tremble lest this treasured love should centre in the 

grave ; — 
Make me the first, Most Merciful, death's withering 

frown to brave. 

I am weary, I am weary. My soul, in dreams, hath 
been 

To that high world whose glories ne'er unveil to mortal 
ken ; 

And all is dimness here and doubt, earth's charms 
have passed away ; 

Give me the land where sorrowing night is lost in per- 
fect day. 

I am weary, I am weary. Unbar the gate of death ! 
Ere the impatient blade hath worn away its v/orthless 

sheath ; 
Unbar death's gate ! Like mountain bird in dreary 

cage I pine, — 
Yet not my will, Most Merciful, not my frail 

will, but thine ! 



165 



THE HOUR OF SUCCESS. 

The revel is over, the dancers are gone ; 

The belle of the evening is sitting alone, 

With the diamonds still circling her forehead so fair, 

And the white jasmine twined in her beautiful hair. 

0, signal hath been her good fortune to-night : 
She has distanced her rivals, and captured her knight ; 
She has seen the land's noblest a slave at her feet, 
And a dukedom's bright pearls wait her vision to greet. 

Her lip curls with scorn, and her cheek glows with pride, 
As her glass points to charms by pale envy decried ; 
And a smile of deep triumph illumines her face, 
As her thoughts, like swift runners, her pathway 
retrace. 

She sees the dark spot where she dwelt when a child, 
And strayed in coarse garments o'er common and wild, 
A poor peasant girl, rich in beauty alone, 
Ere the arms of a patroness round her were thrown. 

How strong is the contrast her mirror reveals ! 
But, lo ! while she gazes, a shadow there steals : 
From the halls of the past dark remembrances start, 
And the fangs of remorse bury deep in her heart. 

She sees her lone mother neglectedly pine, 
While her child in the gems of a princess can shine ; 
She hears the last prayer, from her famishing lips, 
For the ingrate who cares but a world to eclipse. 

She sees her pale sister o'erwearied with cares, 
And her tender young brother a prey to life's snares ; 



166 

While the lover, who trusted the tale of her truth, 
Wastes away in the mad-house the fire of his youth. 

They are marshaled before her, and more, many more,r— 
Pale offerings to pride on the threshold of power. 
O, leaden the weights that her bosom oppress ! 
And this is her coveted hour of success ! 

She casts the rich gems from her quivering breast ; 
No more can her heart 'neath their brightness find rest ; 
She crushes her flowers in the midst of their bloom, 
For her spirit is wrapt in a mantle of gloom. 

" O Father," she whispers, " receive me at last, 
A miserable reed, broken down by the blast, 
Yet bearing a penitent spirit within, 
That wearies of earth and the thraldom of sin. 

" Cast me back to obscurity's waves if thou wilt, 
But wipe from my soul the dark records of guilt ; 
Oh gladly from fame's softest smiles do I flee, 
To earn the deep peace which descendeth from thee." 

Blest, blest are the tears of those penitent eyes ; 
They have drawn melting hope from the listening skies ; 
They have wakened a joy the lip fails to express, — 
This, this is the hour of the spirit's success ! 



THE MIRACLE AT NAIN. 

Morn breaks upon Judea with the full, 
Deep, golden splendor of the eastern clime 
When in midsummer. Every spire, and dome, 
And gorgeous temple, and sun-loving tower, 



167 

Throws down a flood of radiance ; and the tall 
Green cedars, and more leafy sycamores, 
Shake their night-gathered diamonds to the breeze 
As it glides murmuringly. Softly riseth 
From the blue lakes, by prophets sanctified, 
A silvery mist, enrobing shrub and flower 
With a transparent beauty, and, anon, 
Stealing through the slant olive-fields to bathe 
The rich fruit with its dew. 

A hymn is heard — 
The shepherds have gone forth upon the hills 
With their white flocks, and grateful praise ascends 
From their rapt souls to heaven. The busy world 
Is now abroad. The dark-browed vine-keeper 
With pruning knife and eager eye surveys 
Each ripening grape-row and pomegranate bed. 
The gardener seeks with watering-pot in hand 
His flowers and spices ; while in playful groups 
Gather the peasant children round the doors 
Of the low cottages, to watch their sires 
Wend cheerfully their way to daily toil. 

The city's hum increaseth with the morn. 

The rush of chariots and the neigh of steeds, 

The heavy tread of camels laden for 

Some distant mart ; the cries of vintners o'er 

Their wine-flasks, and of grasping merchantmen 

Above their gorgeous wares ; while, now and then, 

Mingle the cymbal's silvery cadences 

With the deep-sounding tambour, and the songs 

Of flower and dancing girls, as oft they pause 

Beneath the spacious balconies to give 

Their morning: serenade. 



168 

Is there an ear, 
Oh lovely Nain, within thy massy gates 
That listens not with rapture to the sounds 
Of thy prosperity? Is there an eye 
Alive to nature's glories, but doth glance 
With an unwonted fervor o'er the scenes 
Of such a morn as this ? 

There is a house, 
A small, dark house in thy far suburbs, Nain, 
That knows no gladness ; from the darkened rooms 
Ascends the deep, low wailing, and the chant 
That 's breathed but for the dead. One only room 
Admits the cheerful sunshine. And there sits 
The mother by her child. What now to her 
Is all the glory of this outer world — 
The smiling heavens — the myrrh-scented winds — 
The music of the waters and the birds — 
The breath of once-loved flowers 1 

Long, long had watched 
That widowed woman by her dying son, 
With all that deep, unfathomed tenderness 
God giveth but to mothers. In her heart 
She had shrined hope as an enchanted tree 
By naught to be uprooted, and had prest 
With cheerful lip the sufferer's burning brow, 
And breathed sweet words of peace. And time wore on, 
And him she loved grew worse. Yet dreamed she not 
Of death. slow of heart, and faithless, they 
Who garner all their little world of wealth 
In one frail mortal bark. They cannot hear 
Death's echoing footsteps ; they are blind to all 
The visible symptoms of decaying life. 



169 

And build the golden palaces of hope 
Until the very last. That mother saw 
The idol of her soul each day more weak 
And thin ; and o'er his eye, at last, — 
That eye which ever fondly gazed on her, — 
There came a dimness. On his sunken cheek 
The hectic rose waxed purple ; and she heard, 
When in his fever-dreams, a whispered name 
That was not hers, and then her sick heart knew 
He had loved vainly, and that poverty 
Had been the barrier of his earthly hopes, 
And made his portion death. 

The victim died ; 
And by him in the sackcloth's dismal garb 
Sat the now childless widow. Night and morn, 
Of all the long days ere the burial, 
Found her still bowed beside the precious clay, 
Heedless of prayers and tears. 

Dreams have come down 
To blunt the deadly anguish of her soul, 
And gently lead her to the sunny past 
When love was happiness. She feels again 
The young arms clasped around her bending neck, 
The soft cheek on her bosom, and the sweet, 
Low, lisping voice of infancy thrill all 
The fibres of her heart. She hears again 
The first warm, guileless prayer go up to heaven, 
Holy as angels breathe — again the breath 
Of the dear sleeper stirs her flowing hair ; 
She gazes on the half-shut violet eyes, 
The parted lips, the soft and sunny curls 
Half shading the white brow, and feels a deep, 
15 



170 

O'ernowing gush of happiness within 

Her spirit's holiest depths. Memory 

Still leads her on. The schoolboy rushes in, 

Glowing - with health and rosy exercise, 

And with delighted accents breathes the tale 

Of his excelling labors, while he fills 

Her lap with wild-flowers and sweet frankincense. 

Again he stands before her in the pride 

And beauty of his early manliness, 

Noble in form and soul. In him she sees 

Revived the lost love of her widowed heart — 

The husband of her youth. She hears his name 

Spoken by all with blessings* Prophecies 

Of the sure greatness of his latter years 

Fall on her ear like music. All her toils, 

Her hard privations, deep solicitude, 

Are merged into forgetfulness — and far 

In the dim vista of declining life 

She sees a refuge for her weary head 

Upon the bosom of rewarding love. 

O could the wretched hut live on in dreams ! 
The mourner wakes to feel the mockery 
Of dear remembrances. With that despair 
Which knows no soul's physician, she again 
Presses her lips unto his icy brow, 
And prays for her own death. 

The burial morn 
Has now arrived, and with it bringeth news. 
The widow has become the 'heritor 
Of vast possessions. As if, alas ! her cup 
Of bitterness were not already full 
Without this added drop. She hears it but 



171 

To breathe a wild and frenzied curse on gold, 
The canker-worm of love ; and then relapse 
Into her still despair. * * * ' * 

The funeral train 
Winds slowly through the long o'ershadowed streets 
And winding alleys. Solemnly arise 
Through the clear air the wailers' piercing cries, 
Shaking the hearse-plumes with their tremulous swell. 
Anon is heard the low melodious chant 
Which weeping Israel ever breathes above 
The corpse of the beloved ; and every head 
Is bowed to catch its spirit-moving words. 

" Put off thy pleasant robes, oh daughter of Nain ! 

Lay aside thy beautiful garments for the sackcloth of 
grief; 

For the brave hath gone down to the place of darkness. 

The cedar is bowed in the dust ; his leaves are perished. 

Let the fir-tree mourn aloud in Elealah ; 

Let the trees of Lebanon hang their heads in tears. 

Very comely was Heli, the son of Susannah ; 

Like the sun at noon-day was the glory of his counte- 
nance. 

But the spoiler hath laid the canker at his heart, 

And the home that knew him shall know him no more 
forever. 

Let your tears fall for Susannah, oh daughters of Nain ! 

Wail for the childless mother, in her hour of desolation ; 

For mightily doth the hand of the Lord oppress her, 

And heavy on her soul is the weight of his chastening. 

Her sun hath gone down in darkness at mid-day ; 

Her moon hath buried its beams in the grave of Heli." 



. 172 

The gates are pass'd ; the low chant dies away 

Amid the sobs of sympathizing friends ; 

And now they move in silence. But, ah ! who 

Are those few pilgrims, toil and travel-worn, 

Grouped by the way-side, gazing earnestly 

On the long file of mourners ? In their midst 

Stands one on whom all eyes are riveted 

In silent wonder. He is like the rest 

In dress and stature, but there is enstamped 

On every feature of his Godlike face 

A beauty so transcendent, mingled with 

Such pitying softness, that all hearts are drawn 

Towards him insensibly. 

It pauses there, 
That great procession ; and beside the bier 
Standeth the holy stranger. In his eyes 
Are drops of sweet compassion, as their glance 
Rests on the bowed and muffled form of her 
Who is no longer mother. His rich voice 
Is low and deeply tremulous, as in 
Her torpid ear he breathes the words, (so oft 
Breathed, ah! how vainly!) " Daughter, weep thou 

not!" 
She starts. Those tones are not all strange to her, 
For 'mid the horrors of a midnight watch 
Beside dissolving nature, thrice had she heard 
That deep voice whisper slowly at her side, 
" I am the resurrection and the life." 
Thrice had those melting eyes thrilled her whole soul 
With an unearthly peace, and she awoke 
To chide imagination, that could thus 
Mock her with happiness. But now she feels 
A strange presentiment of bliss to come, 



173 

And, trembling-, watches every varying look 
Of her deliverer. 

His hand is raised — 
He touches the dark bier, and cries aloud, 
" Young man , I say arise ! " 

Oh ! when from death 
The sleeper woke to life, to love, to hope, 
And in the snowy vestments of the grave 
Sat up and ministered to all around 
Of heavenly things to come, they needed not 
A revelator's voice to prove that he 
Whose hand had wrought this wondrous miracle 
Was God's anointed Son ! 



THOSE WE LOVE. 

Those we love are passing from us — 
Passing like the summer flowers ; 

Soon our clearest heart-companions 
Death shall gather to his bowers. 

Vainly shall we list for voices, 
Made by absence doubly dear, 

And remorse will sternly question — 
" Didst thou cherish them when here?" 

Oh ! in sorrow — in vexation — 

In all trials, let us prove, 
By the purest, tenderest duties, 

How undying is our love. 
15* 



174 

Thus life's parting- pangs a solace 
In sweet retrospect shall know, 

And the grieved and wounded spirit 
Rise unburthened from its wo. 



CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Methinks I see that thrilling scene — 

Those children and our Lord ; 
Each little head bent lovingly, 

To catch his faintest word. 

He gazes in their melting eyes, 

He clasps them to his breast, 
And calls them flowers of Paradise — 

Partakers of his rest. 

Oh mother ! from whose heart of hearts 

The grief-drops yet distil ; 
Whose bosom bears an aching void 

This world can never fill — 

Take hope — your little lambs repose 

Upon a tenderer breast, 
And never may your fond heart dream 

How deeply they are blest. 



THE POWER OF PRAYER. 

A widow knelt, at eventide, in the holy act of prayer, 
Amid the young and sireless band entrusted to her care : 
Meekly and trustfully she sued before the Power divine, 
Yet closed each prayer with these deep words, — " Lord, 
not my will, but thine." 



175 

She prayed for all this sorrowing world, its sinners and 
its saints, 

For every stricken heart, too weak to utter its com- 
plaints : 

She prayed for blessings to descend on every human 
head, — 

The rich, the poor, the high, the low, the dying, and 
the dead. 

She prayed — her little ones drew near — for all the fa- 
therless, 

And, with clasped hands, besought our Lord her tender 
flock to bless, 

And with the needed strength to nerve her faint and 
erring heart 

To train them in the way from which they never might 
depart. 

She prayed — her voice grew tremulous — for one who 

long had been 
A reckless wanderer from her arms, a reveller in sin, — 
Her first-born son, who scorned alike her prayers and 

her reproof, 
And from his home and God, for years, had coldly kept 

aloof. 

She prayed ; and the warm eloquence of stung but 

hoping love 
Bore on its swift and fervid wings these heart-wrung 

words above : 
"0 Lord! my Lord! thou yet wilt have compassion 

on my tears, 
Nor turn to dust the lone desire of all my widowed 

years. 



176 

" He is my child, — he was the first fair blossom from 

thy hand, 
Pure as the snowdrop when the spring first breathes 

upon the land : 
He loved thee ere the blight of sin had fallen on his 

soul, 
Or vile companions had enticed to drain the maddening 

bowl. 

" I know, dear Saviour, thou hast borne with scoff, and 
taunt, and jest, 

And deeply have these insults pierced and rankled in 
my breast : 

I know that justice calls aloud for vengeance on his 
head ; 

Yet save him, Lord ! nor vainly let thy widowed sup- 
pliant plead. 

"O! by the holy water poured upon his infant brow, 

When with rapt soul I breathed to heaven the dedi- 
cating vow, 

And by the prayers and by the praise of his unsullied 
youth, 

I pray thee call him back again by thine all-saving truth. 

" By all my heavy, darkened days, by all my sleepless 
nights, 

When striving with this cankering wo, that every 
pleasure blights, — 

By the last boon his father craved 'mid dissolution's 
pangs, 

I pray thee snatch my dying child from out the tempt- 
er's fangs. 



177 

" Call home the prodigal, — a feast of love awaits him 

still ; 
Yet pardon this weak heart, if aught it asks against thy 

will. 
Oh ! frenzied is a mother's love, — such frenzied love is 

mine ; 
Yet shall it yield its strength to thee : ' Lord, not my 

will, but thine.' " 

A cry is heard ; a loathsome form in tattered garb draws 

near ; 
A sobbing voice breathes "Mother" in the widow's 

startled ear ! 
O, doth the mighty God at last her sad petition heed? 
He doth, he doth, and answers it, in this her hour of 

need. 

The wanderer weeps upon her neck, hot, penitential 

tears ; 
He had come back, with callous heart, to bid farewell 

for years, 
When that wild prayer his bosom piereed, like lightning 

from the heaven ; 
And now, as when a little child, he prays to be forgiven. 

0, ye who mourn o'er blighted hopes, o'er loved ones 

gone astray, 
Do ye, like him who craves for bread, importunately 

pray? 
Though many blessed gifts are ours without our anxious 

thought, 
There are some boons that with our prayers and tears 

alone are bought. 



178 



THE NEGLECTED BARD. 

"The full, warm gushings of thy heart 
Were chilled like fount-drops, frozen as they start." 

Moore. 

Yes, it was beautiful, that night — 
That calm, soft night ; and gently fell, 
Prom the gemmed skies, a flood of light, 
Waking to life each sleeping dell, 
And stealing from the floweret's bell 
Each twilight frown that lingered there, 
Wreathing in its dark place the spell 
Which moonlit flowers so sweetly wear. 
'T was beautiful. O earth ! O earth ! 
Thou giv'st but one pure hour of bliss, 
One hour, of all thine others worth, 
For its surpassing loveliness. 
One hour ! Who that hath ever gazed, 
Unfettered by one worldly thought, 
Where Heaven's eternal altars blazed, 
And their first vestal glances caught, 
Nor felt a holier spirit stir 
Within his bosom's deep recess — 
A voice whose deep-toned breathings were 
Unrivalled in their power to bless ? 

Such were thy thoughts, pale Tannahill, 
Till on that last, sad, fearful night, 
When by thy side the murmuring rill 
In vain threw back its waves of light, 
And breathed its music. What to thee 
Were nature's gifts, profusely spread? 
What the vast range of scenery — 
The hills, the glens, the river's bed 



179 

Of dazzling brightness ? once the boast 
Of thy young Scottish heart, when life 
Seemed to thy earnest gaze, at most, 
A beauteous bower with roses rife ? 

But now, what was there left to thee ? 
Thy cup was full. Love, glory, fame, 
All that thy high soul aimed to be, 
Had vanished ! no, not e'en a name 
Was left ; naught but this sickening choice- 
A life of cheerless poverty, 
Unsweetened by one kindly voice ; 
Unknown, unblest, from all to flee, 
Like the lone leper — this, but this, 
Or that from which the stoutest heart 
Shrinks back appalled — the loneliness 
Of death's dread heritage thy part ! 

Thou chosest the latter. May this guilt, 
Unfeeling world, be thine — all thine ! 
That the fond hopes by genius built 
Were 'reft away, and all divine 
Uprooted with them, till the hand 
Of the poor victim sought to stay 
Unbidden life's slow-floating sand, 
And fly from torturing scenes away ! 
Thine be the guilt ! Thy sons of pride, 
With their loud-boasted feeling, should 
Have placed them by the trembling side 
Of that lone being, as he stood 
On the low river's bank, and bared 
His marble forehead to the breeze, 
As if his fluttering pulse had dared 
Rebellious in its channels freeze ! 



180 

They should have seen the bitter tears, 

As from his swollen eyes they fell, 

Cold as the lucid stream appears 

Wrung- from the glossy icicle ; — 

Sent forth to tell how chilled the seat 

Of life's best energies ; how waste 

The Etna'd path where darkling meet 

The scathed leaves there by memory placed ! 

Oh it was not the sordid fear, 
Planted in common minds, that shook 
His upright frame, and drew the tear 
From his seared brain ! 't was not the look 
Of ghastly death — ah no ! ah no ! 
'T was loounded feeling , crushed and flung 
All poisoned back, like drops that flow 
The fatal upas-leaves among ! 
'T was this; and as his cold hands grasped 
His untuned harp, and calmly tore 
Its glittering strings, (so often clasped 
With a deep, fervid wish to pour 
Undying anthems,) there were heard 
The lingering numbers of a lay, 
Mournful as that which night's sad bird 
Sings, as it wends its weary way 
O'er deserts ; it was like the dirge 
Chanted by wailing winds o'er those 
Whose pillow is the sparkling surge, 
Mingled with flowers the sea-weed throws. 
It breathed a language known to none, 
Save those whose very hopes are sorrow ; 
Whose years their sombre wings have thrown 
To shroud in death the coming morrow. 
'T was thy last song, neglected Bard ! 



181 

Of all thy fruitless dreams a token ! 

Of dreams by callous memories marred — 

The offering of a spirit broken ! 
******** 

The song - had ceased, and naught was heard, 

Save the low wind's unchanging tone, 

As the unconscious leaves it stirred, 

Like some sad spirit's listless moan ; — 

Till, suddenly, the splashing wave 

Told to the startled ear that Death 

Had given to Tannahill a grave ! 



THE BRIDE'S RETURN. 

A litter is borne to the cottage door, — 

Fair Edith returns to her home once more ; 

But dim is tbe light of her soft blue eye, — 

She has come to the haunts of her youth to die. 

Scarce a twelvemonth has passed since she left the side 

Of her weeping mother, a happy bride : 

O, bright on that morn seemed her future sky ; 

And now she comes to her home to die ! 

Long, long has she borne with the taunting mirth 
Of her lord's proud friends at her humble birth ; 
She has borne in silence with open wrong, 
For her faith in one was undimmed and strong ; 
But a shadow has crept to that idol's heart, — 
She has seen young love from his throne depart ; 
She has read dislike in her husband's eye, 
And she turns to the home of her youth to die, 
16 



182 

" Mother," she whispers low, 
" Dear mother, take again your weary child. 

O, it is bliss to know 
There is one breast in all this earth's drear wild, 
Whereon the aching head may safe repose, 
Unscourged by change, and all its cankering woes. 

' ' Mother, I come to die ! 
Shrink not ; 't is sure a blessed, blessed boon, 

When love's deep streams are dry, 
And life's best hopes grow pale at early noon. 
Let thy fond eye but mark my latest breath, 
And I can smile amid the pangs of death. 

" Take me to my own room, 
For which so long my breaking heart hath pined. 

There ! there ! how rich the bloom 
Of the wild plant my hand so gaily twined 
Around the casement ! 0, thou hast the power 
To draw sweet tears, my simple forest flower ! 

' ' Thou hidest no thorns to pierce 
The tender love that trusts and blesses thee ; 

Thou look'st not dark and fierce, 
As he has looked for many months on me ; 
Dut from thy soft, red lips methinks I hear 
The love-breathed language of a higher sphere. 

" O, is not all a dream, 
A wretched dream, from which I now awake ? 

I hear the wild mill-stream 
'Mid the rough crags its hoarse complainings make ; 
I see the tall trees by soft zephyrs stirred ; 
I hear the singing of my favorite bird. 



183 

" There are my choice books ranged 
Upon the shelf, as by my own fond hand : 

0, there is nothing changed 
In this dear spot, — not even my dahlia-stand. 
There are my nurslings, — bright and fresh they seem : 
Thank Heaven ! 't was but a dark and frightful dream. 

" No ; by this burning pain 
Deep in my heart, that will not come away, 

It was no dream. Again 
My spirit writhes beneath remembrance' sway ; 
His cold, distrustful glance is on me still, 
And bitter words my cup of grief refill. 

" Fold me to your kind breast ; 
Closer, dear mother, — I am growing cold : 

Soon shall I be at rest 
Beneath the valley's ever-hiding mould ; 
And thou wilt weep, and Ae, perchance, at last 
Will dwell remorseful on the cruel past. 

" Should that blest hour e'er come, 
O, mother, soothe him with these peaceful words i 

In this my hour of doom, 
I bless him from my spirit's inmost chords ; 
And, as I hope for mercy from above, 
I leave him my forgiveness and my love." 

The martyr is yielding her tremulous breath ; 
On her forehead are falling the shadows of death ; 
Her bird is still singing, her flowers are yet gay, 
But the soul that so loved them is passing away. 
A shriek has gone out on the soft summer air ; 
'T is the heart-piercing note of a mother's despair, 



184 

As she clasps to her bosom her idolized clay, 
And the darkness of night settles over her way. 

0, she sees not the beautiful beings who come 

To bear her dear child to a heavenly home ; 

She hears not the anthems that ring through the sky ? 

Nor the whispers of love where the cherubim fly. 

There is joy in high heaven ; a saint hath returned : 

4 ' Bring flowers," fadeless flowers, for the heart that 

hath mourned ; 
Let her sit at the feet of the holy I Am, 
Beloved of the angels, and bride of the Lamb! 



FOREST RAMBLERS. 

There go our little ramblers, 

Blithe children of the wood, 
Who every holiday seek out 

The forest's solitude. 
They seek the spring's first violets, 

They seek the laughing streams, 
They seek the emerald moss-banks, where 

The snow-white daisy gleams. 

A happy elf is Willy, 

With his fishing-rod and bait ; 
And like a shadow at his heels 

Goes little dancing Kate. 
Their voices far are ringing out ; 

They are thinking of their spoils, 
Their flowers, their fish, their berries, and 

Their welcome from their toils. 



185 

Heaven bless our little ramblers ! 

They will hear the wild birds sing ; 
They will listen to all pleasant sounds 

Of the gay, rejoicing spring ; 
They will breathe the fragrant mountain air ; 

They will see the young fawns play, 
And, with swift feet and eager eyes, 

Through dell and dingle stray. 

Heaven bless our little ramblers, 

And bring them back, at night, 
To our fond arms, with happy hearts 

And sharpened appetite. 
O, sweet the lessons they will hear 

From nature's lips to-day ; 
And whom she learns need never go 

From life and light astray. 



TALE OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 

What hast thou to tell me, wild mountain stream? 

I will sit me down on thy velvet bank, 
Where the daisies and bright yellow buttercups gleam, 

Like the Druid whose spirit the moonbeams drank. 
Where hast thou been roaming, so merry and free ? 
Come, give me thy joyous history. 

I was born in the depths of a narrow glen, 
Of a fountain as pure as the tears of the rose ; 

Far away from the troublesome haunts of men, 
Where the star-flower forever in secret glows, 

And the wild-balm flings to the misty breeze 

The honeyed breath of the laden bees. 
16* 



186 

'T was a bright spring morn when I ventured out 
From a hiding place in my mossy cave : 

O ! merrily gamboled the winds about, 

And dashed the spray from my shrinking wave ; 

And the red sun flaunted his glittering locks 

In my face, as J leaped from the threatening rocks. 

! wild are the sights which the mountain stream sees, 
Though lonely and shadowed its course may be. 

With terror I crept 'neath the frowning trees, 
In the craven hours of my irrfancy, 

And scarcely breathed when a sound was heard 

That came not from leaves by the zephyrs stirred. 

A spotted fawn came down from the hills, 

With a stealthy motion and timid eye ; 
A moment he paused mid the murmuring rills, 

Then sprang, like a star from the midnight sky ; 
And an eager greyhound came rushing by, 
With a fallen tongue and a bloody cry. 

Is such this bright world? I whispered low, 

When above me the clashing of swords was heard, 

And I drank the blood of the fallen foe, 

And mingled my wail with the evening birds'. 

'Tis mournful, I said, but still best, I am sure, 

To be patient with evils we cannot cure. 

So I danced along with a heart of glee, 

Giving out music where'er I went ; 
And sister rills came from each upland lea, 

With the birch and the spice-bush redolent ; 
And our fond waves joined, till at last I took 
The name and pride of a mountain brook. 



187 

Sometimes I dashed, with a courser's speed, 
Down gulfs where the daylight never shines ; 

Sometimes I lay in some scalloped mead, 
And dallied all day with its trailing vines ; 

Then stealthily wound away at night, 

Like a cautious snake with the foe in sight. 

Sometimes I rumbled through haunted caves, 
Chatting with goblins and mocking fays ; 

Sometimes o'er the red men's shallow graves 
I swept with a dirge, in the moon's dim rays ; 

And beauty and verdure sprang up where'er 

My voice rang out on the silver air. 

A white rose bent o'er my glassy sheet, 

And blushed at the beauty she there discerned ; 

A pale spruce buried her dying feet 

In my depths, and the dew to her leaves returned ; 

And I nursed into brightness those delicate gems 

That give but to water their pearly stems. 

O, sweet are the sights which the mountain stream sees ! 

A fair babe fell in my arms and slept ; 
I bore its soft form 'neath the whispering trees, 

And I hushed its last wail like a mother, and wept 
As its blue lips I kissed ; and its silky white hair 
I turbaned with willow-leaves sorrowing there. 

A grey-haired parson approached me one day, 
With a youthful maiden of loveliness rare ; 

And he sprinkled her brow with my purest spray, 
And offered to Heaven an eloquent prayer. 

O, none but I heard the wild music that thrilled 

Through the sky when that baptismal rite was fulfilled^ 



188 

A wanderer sat by my gurgling side, 

And repentance came down to his blackened heart ; 
His hot tears fell in my hurrying tide, 

As he vowed with the apple of sin to part. 
And I saw the recording angel write 
His name in a glorious book of light. 

But, mortal, I tarry too long with thee ; 

I must hasten on to the sounding main, 
Gladdening all hearts as I wander free, 

And soothing the brows that are throbbing with pain. 
Be thou, too, active, and learn of me 
To brighten thy road to eternity. 



THE TOLLING BELL. 

How dost thou vibrate on my trembling heart, 
Stern clarion of the grave, with thy deep knell ! 

Causing dim memory from the past to start, 
And o'er again life's dark experience tell, 

Tolling bell ! 

Hush thy cold voice ! Too plainly do I see 
The mournful throng in long procession swell ; 

But the dear form, alas, unseen by me, 
Must pass, for thou of time dost tell, 

Tolling bell ! 

O, the sweet bird that hushed its song so soon ! 

Tears ever must from feeling's fountain well, 
While 'neath the saintly beaming of the moon 

A weary wanderer from my home I dwell, 

Tolling bell ! 



189 

But it is joy to know there is a sphere 

Where thy dread sounds on startled ear ne'er fell ; 
Toll on ! I will with hopeful patience hear, 

Since time for thee reserves a parting knell. 

Tolling bell ! 



TALE OF AN INVALID. 

" "We are truly ' beings clothed with veils,' and cannot understand 
each other ; scarcely, indeed, can we comprehend ourselves. It is very 
likely, that those we often most envy, are most to be pitied, while 
those we most pity are most to be envied." — Letter. 

1 scarce can tell how may years 

I 've lain within this darkened room, 

Now buoyed with hopes, now sad w r ith fears, — 

The living tenant of a tomb. 

But when disease first laid his hand, 

With palsying touch, upon my brow, 

I had a babe that scarce could stand, — 

He wears the look of manhood now. 

Slow r ly the first few years dragged on 
Their lengthened seasons ; and, to me, 
It seemed their round would ne'er be done, 
Nor changed their dull monotony. 
I saw not, then, the chastening rod, 
Which now my lips so joyous kiss, 
Nor raised one feeble prayer to God 
To mitigate my wretchedness. 

My friends forsook me, one by one, 
They who had said they loved me well ; 
They wearied of my endless moan, 
And pity ceased their hearts to swell. 



190 

Why should it not ? I could no more 
Their worldly interests promote ; 
They knew my little day was o'er, 
And took of me no further note. 

Even those by ties of blood allied, 

At length grew careless of my fate ; 

They seldom came to my bedside, 

And, lastly, left me desolate. 

Months, years went by, and my weak gaze 

Scarce rested on a human face, 

Save those who fed life's feeble blaze, 

And kept, for gold, their tedious place. 

My life was one unvarying reign 

Of gloomy days and gloomier nights ; 

Of hours of sorrow, hours of pain, 

Without one taste of earth's delights; 

Without one single thought of heaven, 

Without one effort to subdue 

My stubborn heart, that should have given 

Its trust to God when life was new. 

I heard the voices of the gay, 
And mourned the world that I had lost ; 
My soul grew darker day by day ; 
Like a poor vessel tempest-tossed, 
When storm-clouds sweep across the sky, 
And masts are gone, and shoals are nigh, 
No guide, no star, no hope had I, 
And only wished that I might die. 

Such might have been my state e'en now, 
Had not all-seeking mercy shone 



191 

Across my path, and bade me bow 
A humble suppliant at its throne. 
There came one morn, — it was in May 
They told me, and I felt the air, 
The first I 'd felt for many a day, 
Kiss balmily my brow of care, — 

There came a laughing- child to me, — 
Wherefore, I never asked, nor knew ; 
But her blue eyes suppressed their glee, 
As their quick glances o'er me flew. 
She oped a little Testament, 
And softly leaned against my bed ; 
I felt she was an angel sent 
To raise the sinner from the dead. 

And never yet, to mortal ear, 

Came sweeter sounds than then to mine, 

From those young lips that whispered clear 

The lessons of the Book Divine. 

I wept, I sobbed, — for backward rolled 

The long and blotted scroll of years, 

And from my heart sin's serpent-fold 

Uncoiled beneath those scorching tears. 

God gave me back, in that blest hour, 
My childhood's fresh and trusting love, 
And to my fainting soul the power 
Of fixing all its hopes above. 
The burdens which so long had weighed 
My sinking spirit to the dust, 
At the Redeemer's feet were laid, 
And I was numbered with the just. 



192 

ye gay worldlings, who so oft 

In haste past my barred window steal, 
Would that ye found your beds as soft 
As mine, with all its thorns, doth feel ! 

1 know ye. In your festering hearts 
Writhes the blind worm that never dies, 
Till sin, with scorpion train, departs, 
And heaven its healing balm applies. 

I know ye. Waste no thoughts on me ; 

This dark room is an Eden now ; 

The blossoms of life's fragrant tree 

Fall sweetly on my fevered brow. 

I have blest thoughts even when my form 

Is writhing in the grasp of pain ; 

I hear Him whisper through the storm, 

" My child, thou sufFerest not in vain !" 

Through the dark watches of the night, 
When guilt on seas of blood is tost, 
I walk in heaven's unshadowed light, 
And clasp again the loved and lost. 
And e'er above my couch doth bend, 
(Husband and brother, all to me,) 
With melting eye the Sinner's Friend, — 
O worldlings, need I pitied be ? 



193 



A VISION. 

" Dream' st thou of heaven ? What dreams are thine ?" 

Hemans. 

I stood by the side of a newly made grave, 
One eve, when no brightness the firmament gave, 
With a spirit as sad as the night wind which swept 
Through the long reedy grass, where my cherished one 
slept. 

I heard the lone owl in his distant retreat, 
And the river's wild waves 'gainst their barriers beat, 
And the willows their tresses sigh sadly o'erhead ; 
But my heart had gone down to the home of the dead. 

I thought of that beautiful being whose love 
Had been bright to my soul as the sunbeams above ; 
Of the spirit-light quenched in the merciless tomb, 
And the whispers of faith died away in the gloom. 

When lo ! a soft halo encircled me round, 

The winds and the waves ceased their murmuring 

sound, 
And that face, from whose beauty no gazer could flee, 
In its newly-clad radiance was shining on me. 

She spoke, and her voice was so thrillingly sweet, 
That I fell, like the prophet of old, at her feet ; 
But she bade me look up from the perishing clay, 
And the mists of death's valley were taken away. 

I saw the far land of our loveliest dreams, 
The flowers that ne'er whither, the ever pure streams ; 
17 



194 

The mansions of glory prepared for the blest, 
Where the way-worn of earth are forever at rest. 

I bathed in the fountain which cleanseth from sin, 
Till the life-drops were glowing my spirit within ; 
And I tasted the fruit of that beautiful tree 
Whose blossoms are faith, and my pinions were free. 

Loved forms gathered round me, loved voices were 

near, 
The low and the sweet which in childhood we hear ; 
And warmly past scenes did to memory throng, 
When they welcomed me home with the jubilee song. 

And away through their midst came the Saviour of 

men, 
And my heart he engraved with his love-writing pen, 
And he gave me the crown which the cherubim wore, 
And he whispered, " Go forth, thou art mortal no 

more." 

I arose, and the bliss which were death upon earth, 
In the shadowless depths of my spirit had birth ; 
And the wealth of that knowledge no flesh may divine, 
When the books were unsealed and its brightness was 
mine. 

'Twas a dream, 'twas a dream — but its memory hath 

power 
To win me away from " the things of an hour." 
Ah ! I think upon death as I thought not of yore, 
And I long for his voice at mortality's door. 



195 



THE YOUTHFUL POET. 

The gem is found, the fountain is unsealed, 
And now she entereth an enchanted world, 
With all her young mind's powers awake to grasp 
The treasures it unfolds. 

To her how changed 
Are all the aspects of this glorious earth, 
And the surrounding heavens. The morning sun, 
Which erst but half admiringly she viewed, 
Shines now into her heart, and kindles there 
Unutterable thoughts. The gentle moon 
Has an all-marvellous beauty in her eyes ; 
And with the sweet and misty stars she holds 
Communion as with angel visitor 
When other eyes are shut. 

Her house is 'mid 
The dwellings of the great — but all day long 
She lingereth on some moss-clothed precipice, 
Or near some forest stream, indulging rich 
And ever varying fancies, while the gay, 
The beautiful, the worldly, wonder at 
Their favorite's absence. # # # 

On the scroll of fame, 
Inscribed in never-dying characters, 
Is now that young girl's name. The crowd doth gaze, 
And minister of flattery's incense-cup 
Whene'er she passes by. 

But she is like the flower 
That yields its sweets to every gentle breeze, 
And still is not impoverished. Within 
The depth of that high heart there glows a fount 



196 

Of pure unsullied feeling, where the streams 
Of heartless adulation yet have failed 
To make their poisonous way. 

May He, 

Whose cherub bands with flaming sword preserved 
The tree of life, protect that sacred fount, 
And to earth's sweetest singer teach at last 
The triumph song of Moses and the Lamb. 



" HOSPITALITY REWARDED," OR THE 
WIDOW'S TRUST. 

If there is one noble quality in the human heart 
which I admire above any other, it is hospitality ; 
genuine, unostentatious hospitality. In former times, 
a neglect to exercise this benevolent disposition was 
considered in some countries deeply criminal, and was 
punished with severity. It is now, in most civilized na- 
tions, punished with a loss of reputation. This is as it 
should be. I have somewhere read a little story, whieh 
beautifully illustrated this noble principle, and of which 
the following is, in part, an abridgment : 

Still wildly beat the storm. The hollow winds 
Moaned fearfully around the shattered base 
Of the poor widow's miserable hut. 
The withered leaves went fluttering on the blast, 
Like things of life and voice, and the tall trees 
Which peered above the half uncovered roof, 
Dashed down their knotty arms, as if to tear 
The last frail covering from the orphan's head. 
Cold was the widow's heart, and hopeless tears 
Fell thickly from her dim and anxious eye, 



197 

As with a bitter pang she gazed upon 

Her little children hovering around the fire. 

She thought upon the morrow, — would it bring 

Raiment and food to save her suffering babes? 

'T was past all hope ! and with a broken prayer 

To God for resignation, she essayed 

To still the throbbings of her aching breast. 

She heard a sound — was it the creaking door 

Half loosened from its hinges 1 or the hail 

Rattling through each unmortar'd aperture ? 

Again — no, 'tis a faint and piteous voice, 

Beseeching shelter from the howling storm. 

The widow hastened to undo the latch, 

And lo ! a wretched figure slowly dragged 

Its shivering limbs towards the cheerless hearth. 

The stranger wore a sailor's tattered garb — 

His locks were long and matted, and his head 

Boasted no covering, save a 'kerchief vile, 

From which depended icicles and frost. 

His hands were gloveless, and his freezing feet 

Peered through his worn out shoes — and poverty 

And grief seemed his familiar elements. 

In pity gazed the widow, and well nigh 

In his still keener misery forgot her own. 

But when he asked for food, the spell was broke- 

The dreadful morrow rushed upon her mind 

With all its pining horrors. Could she snatch 

The last remaining morsel from her babes 

To feed a wandering stranger ? 

Oh, reflect, 
Thou hast a son, lone widow, who for years 
Has been a reckless truant from thy side. 
Think of this boy, fond mother, — for perchance 

17* 



193 

This night, this very night, in some far land, 
He craves with bitter tears one mite to save 
His miserable existence — and wouldst thou 
That he should be denied ? 

"There is an ear," 
Exclaimed the widow with a mournful smile, 
" That listeneth to the raven's piercing cry — 
'Twill surely hear the orphan's ;" — and she placed 
Before her guest her cupboard's scanty all. 
But 't is untasted — with a varying cheek 
And tear-beclouded eye, the stranger turns 
Towards his wondering hostess. O'er his face 
Are flitting strange expressions, and his voice 
Seems choked with words too deep for utterance. 
He clasps her hand, and sobs at length aloud — 
11 Mother, my dearest mother." 

'T is her son, 
Her long-lost son, comes to her in disguise. 
He hath returned well stored with India's wealth, 
And oh, what is still more precious in 
The pious widow's sight — a heart replete 
With filial love and gratitude to God. 



199 



JATRUS' DAUGHTER. 

She ceased to breathe ; and o'er her brow 
The clammy dews of death were spread ; 
And her sweet voice, so bland and low, 
Murmured its last ; and prayers were said, 
And holy vesper hymns were sung, 
And trembling lips the dirge prolonged, 
And wailing through the wide halls rung, 
And mourners to the death-room thronged— 
For she who lay so cold and still, 
Within the snow-white linen there, 
Had been the light of vale and hill — 
The star of all Judea's fair. 

No newly-gathered spring-flowers threw 

Their rich and balmy freshness round — 

No funeral wreath of heavenly hue 

That pale young sleeper's temples bound : 

For autumn's leprosy had been, 

With withering breath, through Heshbon's groves, 

And lone Elealeh's bowers were seen 

Relinquishing their summer loves ; 

And the small fingering vines which crept 

Along Engedi's terraced walls, 

Drooped wearily ; and cold dews slept, 

'Mid leaves, like glittering coronals. 

Oh, 'tis a saddening thing to stand 
Beside the beautiful — the dead — 



200 

And mark the still, small, lifeless hand, 

Out o'er the heaveless bosom spread ; 

To gaze upon the half-closed eye, 

The lips compressed, the close-bound hair, 

Where dwelt the spark of mystery, 

Which flies at death through upper air. 

'T is a subduing thing — we turn 

With our dissolving hearts, and treasure 

Low in the depths of memory's urn 

Our sorrows in their utmost measure. 

But, soft ! a stranger's foot hath cross'd 
The threshold of yon darkened room — 
A stranger bends above that lost, 
Frail blossom of untimely doom. 
What doth he there 1 The wailings cease — 
The broken-hearted parents rise. 
What are his words 1 They breathe of peace- 
Thinks he that death will yield his prize ? 
" She is not dead, she only sleeps." 
They answered him with bitter scorn ; 
Again despairing Jairus weeps, 
All comfortless, his only born. 

He heeds them not — the stranger guest 
His mild blue eye turns mournfully 
From their blasphemous taunts, to rest 
Upon the unconscious form of clay. 
And oh, can aught of earth portray 
The holy heaven of that dear glance 1 — 



201 

Silent the scoffers turned away, 

Their hearts grew still as in a trance, 

Their hands waxed nerveless — for they knew 

By that one look their eyes had seen 

The far-famed dread of priestly Jew — 

The persecuted Nazarene. 

He took the maiden's hand, and said, 
" Return to love, and life, and light !" 
The word went forth ! the mourned and dead 
Broke from the icy thrall of night ! 
Radiant with vernal health she stood, 
Enveloped still in winding sheet ; 
Whilst the astonished multitude 
Fell prostrate at the Saviour's feet. 



202 

MOUNTAIN MELODIES. 

A moment pause, thou wandering breeze, 
And touch my lonely harp again, 
Before my wasting pulses freeze, 
And darkness wraps this fevered brain. 
Oh, linger yet, but let each tone 
Be such as breaking hearts should hear, 
As when some spirit's voice alone 
Falls gently on the listening ear. 

And thou, bright star, whose quivering beam 
Spreads melting o'er the liquid deep, 
Oh ! gild this wild, despairing dream, . 
And leave these heavy eyes to weep. 
For every hope, by memory blest, 
Hath perished like the blighted flower, 
And future years, in gladness drest, 
"Were but the visions of an hour. 

It is not meet for souls like mine 
To dwell with those of lighter mood ; 
Away ! in sadness let me twine 
My wreath, 'mid bowers of solitude. 
Away ! But thou, unchanging star, 
Companion of my rocky cell, 
Oh, send thy softer rays afar 
Within these dusky shades to dwell. 

And breathe, ye winds ! there is a spell, 
A charm, in every varying tone, 



203 

That speaks along each echoing dell, 
Like streams by magic influence thrown. 
Eolian sounds ! oh, quickly fall ! 
Disperse these deep, desponding fears, 
And let your wild, entrancing call 
Dissolve my bursting heart to tears. 



SLEEP. 

*Oh, sleep ! thou sweetly, gently soothing power, 
How like to thee the Christian's dying hour, 
When, hopeful of a glorious morn, he lies 
Upon a bed of death, and calmly dies. 
And what, indeed, is death? 'Tis but to sleep. 
What tho' upon our heads the earth they heap. 
Still we sleep on, until the glorious day, 
When, bursting from our prison-house of clay, 
We join the universe in one glad, joyous cry, 
To hail the Friend who for our sins did die. 



204 



SPRING. 

Thou art welcome again, sweet smiling spring, 
With thy flowers and thy birds of the rainbow wing ;- 
Thou art welcome again, for thy face is bright, 
And thou bringest the sounds of unmix'd delight. 

Thy warm sun calls from their deep recess 
The wild ones that dwell in the wilderness ; 
The young fawns leap to the slant sunbeams, 
And bathe in the foam of the mountain streams. 

And the passage birds, with their southern songs, 
Come fluttering homeward in countless throngs ; 
And the golden hues of a varying sky, 
Like cherub pinions, are passing by. 

Not a vision of wild, entrancing frame, 
E'er lighted my soul with its skyward flame, 
But savored of music and smiles, alone 
To the softened glories of spring-time known. 

Thy song was abroad when my childish hand 
First gathered the flowers from the forest land, 
And wrought them in fairy wreaths to glide 
On the glassy breast of the mimic tide ; 

When the noise of the dashing waterfall 
Scarce equalled the thrill of my mirthful call, 
And my young thoughts flew on the passing breeze 
To the honeyed bowers with the morning bees. 

Sweet spring, I have greeted thy morning ray 
Full oft since the zenith of childhood's day, 



205 

'Mid the silvery haunts where the first deep spell 
On the wings of my early fancy fell. 

I have greeted thee oft, and another tone 
Hath murmured thy praises beside mine own ; 
Another being hath helped me cull 
Thy flowers so fragrant and beautiful. 

And another eye, more lovely and bright 
Than the sun in yon burnished sea of light, 
Hath glanced abroad, and pronounc'd thy gifts 
More precious than gold which the sea-maid sifts. 

But, alas ! for the fate of the cherished here ; 
They scarcely bloom in our blighting sphere, 
Ere they fade like the wreath on the misty hill, 
Or the rainbow that melts in the slumbering rill. 

Our bright'ning springs are hurried away, 
Our lov'd go down to the halls of decay ; 
And they leave but the harp of the mournful tone 
To tell us of pleasures we once have known. 

18 



206 



MOMENTS OF SADNESS. 

"From my basket of odd scraps, 
They will come when they will come." 

Mysterious visitors ! why steal ye where 
Joy's sunny glance is bright ? Ye are like 
The unrighteous robber which purloins unseen 
The temple's sacred treasures. Ye arise 
Ever where least expected, as did he 
The storied dread of Venice. 

When the wing of peace is brooding above 

The wandering spirit's home, 
And hope unfurleth her banner of love, 

To gladden the hour of gloom ; 

When the cup of "bliss is filled to the brim, 
And the heart-glow deepens beneath, 

Then gather those images wild and dim, 
With the shroud and cypress wreath. 

Like shadows that fall 

On a silvery lake, 
When the moaning surges 

Have ceased to break ; 
Like the sobbing wind 

Through channels damp ; 
Like the startling blaze 

Of a dying lamp ; 
Like an ice-cold hand 

On a pulse that 's high ; 
Like an open grave 

To a laughing eye ; 



207 

Like the lightning that comes 
From — you know not where — 

And leaves no track 
In the misty air : — 

So wakes that sad, mysterious tone, 

In the bosom's depths where pleasure is nigh ; 

And we feel, though encircled by crowds, alone, 
And we yield to tears, though we know not why. 



PASSAGES FROM THE DIARY OF A 
RECLUSE. 

Silent as death's own valley — not a wave — 
A leaf — a breath — a murmur stirs the down 
Of midnight's purple pinion. To the tree 
Clingeth the yellow foliage, and the breeze 
Hath sighed itself to sleep. The stars are few, 
But brightly beautiful, e'en like the hopes 
That gild young life's horizon, and the rays 
Of the fast sinking moon fall tenderly 
Upon the glassy billow, as in grief 
To leave the mirror of their loveliness. 
softly now, sweet memory, doth a light 
Steal o'er thy rose-touched pages, and the wing 
Of an invisible spirit rustleth 'mid 
Their sunniness and shade ; yet to these eyes, 
Weighed down with many sorrows, all is dim, 
And fluttering, and tearful. Tell me then, 
Kind spirit, what time's brush hath painted there : 
What seest thou, spirit? 



208 

" I see a garden rife with golden flowers, 
And silver-flowing fountains — in its midst 
Stands one upon whose high and manly brow 
Life's summer sun hath glanced, yet left undried 
The bubbling spring of hope. Beside him sits 
A fairy creature, with a voice as clear 
And musical as song-bird's. In its tone 
The father finds that melody which first 
Awoke the answering music of his heart. 
He thinks of one in heaven, and well may tears, 
Half joy, half sorrow, fill his eyes when thus 
He gazes on her image." 

What seest thou next 1 

" A house of mourning. Death has laid his hand 
With icy grasp upon that parent's heart. 
Its pulse is still, and o'er the pallid clay 
Bends the bereaved daughter clad in weeds, 
Which faintly speak the anguish of her mind. 
They whisper ' she 's an heiress,' but she feels 
Alone that she 's an orphan." 

What seest thou next ? 

" I see an altar — and before it kneel 

Two youthful beings, on whose union hath 

The man of God pronounced the words of peace. 

O ! they are lovely — eminently so, 

And pure, and high of soul. The bride is one 

Whose wealth and beauty might have claimed the hand 

Of many a gallant wooer, but she hath 

Passed by them all indifferently, and given 

Her holiest affections up to one 



209 

Unknown to fame and wealth, but ah ! replete 
With all the high mind covets — intellect. 
And all who see them know their hearts are proud, 
His of its nobleness, and hers of him." 

What next, spirit? 

" Decline and early death. Alas, they 're dim — 
The passages that follow. Tears have washed 
Away each smiling image — I can trace 
Naught but the ebon outlines of that form 
"Which lately at the altar trembling knelt, 
With spirit steeped in bliss too pure to last. 
She bendeth now at nightfall o'er the grave 
Of her heart's dearest treasure ; and the grief 
Which hath no words, no sighs, no blessed tears, 
To loosen feeling's suffocating cords, 
Hath wrapt her in its pall. She is become 
Familiar with death's horrors, and would press 
In ecstasy the earth-worm to her lips. 

" But this is over — light hath visited 
Her winter-shrouded spirit. Night and day 
Her eye is rivetted upon the page 
Which yieldeth peace and everlasting life, 
And she hath found it — o'er her pale mild face 
Are flashing now the soft celestial beams 
Of Heaven's unsullied glory — all the streams 
Of wandering thought are gathered into one 
O'erflowing channel — every falling word 
Is burning with one high, exulting theme — 
Each angel look is kindling with one pure 
And all-absorbing sentiment. 'T is love, 
18* 



210 

Impartial, holy, never-dying love, 
Encircling all the mighty realms of mind. 

" They gaze with wonder — her professed friends— 
They smile, they mock, they spurn her from their 

sight. 
And now she strays alone amid the hills, 
A trembling outcast, with a pallid brow, 
And slow and weary step. But where 's the heart 
E'er touched by spark of God's unchanging love 
That cannot 'bide the storm ? 

" Up in her breast 
Hath sprung mysterious strength. The ills of life 
Are past from her remembrance. She doth live, 
And move, and have her being, in the light 
Of God's eternal presence — and the fears 
Of death and hell have now no place within 
Her heaven-instructed soul." 



211 



MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 

My mountain home — spring never threw 

Her gifts 'neath skies of lovelier hue ; 

Ne'er waved sweet summer's rosy plume 

O'er spot of more unsullied bloom ; 

And ne'er did autumn's purple ray 

'Mid scenes of loftier grandeur stray, 

My mountain home ; rude nature's hand, 

Unaided, all thy beauties planned. 

Hill, glen and stream, and hearts whose key 

Is nature's own sincerity •, 

Hearts which, though least of love they boast, 

Still closest cling, and feel the most. 

My mountain home, 'mid cliff and dell, 

My home, I love thee passing well. 

My mountain home, earth has no voice 
To lure me from thy treasures choice — 
The swell of nature's thrilling hymn, 
Through festooned aisles and grottoes dim ; 
The tones which greet soft evening's air 
Of deep, unostentatious prayer; 
The words from lips which ne'er deceive, 
And whose fond truths our spirits cleave. 
Oh ! world, what boots thy cankering gold, 
For which such joys as these are sold ? 
What are thy pleasures, boasted fame? 
Kindle they not life's funeral flame? 
Away, away, I cannot roam 
Beyond my own loved mountain home. 



212 



SICK-BED FANCIES. 

Father ! thou call'st me hence — I hear thy voice, 
Though others no unusual sounds discern ; 

There is a low, soft whisper, making choice 
Of the wan hour, when stars first dimly burn, 

For its revealing, and. that voice is thine ; 
I feel it all my being's depths refine. 

Oh, sweetly solemn do its fond words come — 

" Thy race is o'er, dear sorrowing child, come home !" 

There is a balmy softness in the air ; 

There is bright sunshine on the distant hills ; 
God's holy spirit moveth everywhere, 

Bright'ning the dim old trees and misty hills, 
Till heaven comes down, as 'twere, to this dull earth, 

Giving the glorious Indian summer birth — 
And all is beauty — but is heaven less fair 1 
My spirit inly cries, " Dear Father, take me there !" 

I have been wedded to the sights and sounds 
Of this bright world too deeply and too long ; 

Even now, while standing on life's crumbling bounds, 
With scarcely strength for one sad parting song, 

My weak heart flutters as each woodland tone 
Steals through the casement, and again is thrown 

The spell of olden scenes o'er heart and brain, 

Till I go back to childhood's haunts again. 

Oh, blessed spot ! Who talks of sickness now? — 
I am at home amid the wild, wild woods — 

There is no longer fever on my brow, 
As free I roam the ancestral solitudes, 



213 

A pure, glad-hearted, never-wearied child, 

Chasing- the echoes through the caverns wild, 
And shouting to the eaglets as they fly, 
On tireless pinions, toward the deep blue sky ! 

*J£. M. Jf. Jt. JJ. 

■7S* 7t" "3T "Jf *7P 

Oh, 'mid these bleak and rudely scallopped hills — 
Solemn and full of stern magnificence — 

A life-fraught essence through the air distils, 

And God's high presence thrills the weakened sense ! 

I feel not of the world — I cast aside 

All memory of its jarrings. It has died 

Unto my soul ! I am alone — alone — 

With but heaven's sheltering wings around me thrown ! 

Here let me linger now. I hear the gush 

Of furious waters in yon cavern dim — 
And hark ! there comes the tempest's fearful rush, 

With the wild sobbings of its hollow hymn. 
The trees " do battle," and the air grows black! 

Huzza ! I walk the whirlwind's dizzy track ; 
I laugh amid the lightnings as they spread 
Their flaming banners harmless o'er my head ! 

The scene is changed. Oh, nature, thou art sweet 
In all thy phases ! With a pleasant voice 

Rolleth a well-known river at my feet. 

On its green banks my favorite birds rejoice ; 

Rich flowers are round me with their honeyed breath ; 
Old friends draw near ; e'en those who fought with 
death 

And were the vanquished, years, long years ago ; 

I know them by their trailing robes of snow ! 



214 

O bright must be the land from whence they come, 
Where bliss, like light, a halo round them flings. 

Who would not walk through death's dark valley home, 
To drink such joys from life's unfailing springs? 

They point to heaven with earnest, pleading eyes, 
And lo ! bright visions fill the glowing skies ; 

They rise ! — and earth beneath them waxes dim, 

As dieth on the air their parting hymn ! 



Father ! I turn me to the darkened wall, 
As did thy erring servitor of old ; 

But not, God ! for length of days I call — 
Already have too many here been told. 

I would be gathered to thy fold above, 
If so thou wiliest — for I know thy love 

Such blessings for the mourner hath in store, 

As heart hath ne'er conceived on mortal shore. 



215 



LINES TO DEATH. 

Death ! dost thou aim at me, 
With thine unerring arrow sharp and chill ? 

Wouldst gain a victory 
O'er the poor atom which awaits thy will? 
Speed thy winged shaft ! I ask no longer time — 
My soul is ready for the better clime. 

I weary of the world — 
I weary of its coarse and heartless show ; 

Let life's dim flag be furled ; 
Let the sick mourner to her chamber go ; 
Let the racked frame and aching heart find rest — 
A little space on earth's oblivious breast. 

'T is time the feverish strife 
Of flesh and spirit should forever cease ; 

Draw near thou " better life," 
And rend, oh Death ! these bands that yield no peace ; 
I will not fly thine amputating hand. 
Surgeon of God ! I wait but thy command ! 

Let but the few who love 
This wasting form, and are beloved by me, 



216 

My pillow bend above, 
That on dear faces my last look may be ; 
And I will bless thee, with my dying breath, 
Friend of the friendless ! kind, life-giving Death ! 



C 32 89 -«■ 





>0« 






° • * * aV 





HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

DEC 88 

jl. MANCHESTU 
INDIANA 46962 



^F N. MANCHESTER • 

^■^ INDIANA 46962 | «7\ **' 



